


Everyday Magics

by Move_The_Farthest_Star



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (Book & Movie), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, Inspired by Howl's Moving Castle, M/M, Magic, Quests, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26676613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Move_The_Farthest_Star/pseuds/Move_The_Farthest_Star
Summary: When a curse threatens the Great King of Aoba Johsai, a peculiar crew must band together to take on a quest for peace—or revenge, depending on who gets their way. In any case, all Sugawara really cares about is getting back to his everyday life as a merchant witch. After all, everyday magics are Sugawara's specialty.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji & Kuroo Tetsurou, Hanamaki Takahiro & Matsukawa Issei, Hinata Shouyou & Kageyama Tobio, Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru, Kozume Kenma & Kuroo Tetsurou, Sawamura Daichi & Sugawara Koushi, Tsukishima Kei & Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 6





	1. The Humble Witch

Imagine, if you will, a powerful gust of wind, ripping across grassy plains in the night. Do you hear it? Do you see it? It tears over the countryside of Aoba Johsai where farmers and their children huddle a little closer and pull the sheets a little tighter as their dreams turn gray and mushy. Their nightmares are but an unintended side effect, for they are not the target of this foul wind that shakes the sails of tall-masted navy boats and fishing dinghies docked in the kingdom’s harbor. Neither is the lone sentry at his post on the east side of the Blue Castle who listens as the wind bustles past him and recalls—in that instant—every person he ever loved and let down.

The wind claws its way up the castle walls and rattles the windows. It snarls and howls and bangs on the stained glass of the Grand Hall. In a furious gust, it knocks open the panes and barrels through the interior, heading for a room that has no windows for fear of assassins: the bedchamber of the Great King.

Within this chamber—opposite the four-poster bed—a heavily marked-up map rests on the face of an ornate desk. Dashed lines denote the ever-changing border between the Kingdom of Aoba Johsai and the Empire of Shiratorizawa to the north. Half-empty bottles of muscle relaxants and charms for cold compression weigh down the corners of the parchment. Ink runs with the tacky yellow sludge of an expired sleep spell.

The Great King sleeps as soundly as he ever does, which is to say, not at all. He twitches restlessly under a woven quilt, heavy but not enough to soothe him. His chances of peaceful slumber tonight were slim at best. Now, they are nonexistent. For while the Great King tosses and turns, the assailing wind meets the Head Guard posted outside the chamber door. It throws the guard to the ground and bursts into the room. Howling and thrashing, it plunges into its sleeping target. It floods him with misery in an instant, all wails and moans and anguish. The king flails into an upright position, fully awake, heart racing, ears ringing.

Great King Oikawa panics in a quiet, empty bedchamber. The horrible aftershocks of a living nightmare flare and die out in his veins. He throws off the covers and shivers from the cold air hitting the cold sweat on the back of his neck. He stumbles to his feet in time to see Head Guard Iwaizumi poke his head through the open doorframe, perfectly distraught.

“Oikwawa-sama?” Iwaizumi murmurs as his eyes dart about the room. He knows an intangible force passed through here and knocked him down, but he doesn’t know what or where it is now. Oikawa fixes big glassy eyes on his trusted friend and guard. Though the room is silent, he cannot hear Iwaizumi’s words. Wails resound in his head, and they grow louder by the second. He speaks—and he knows he’s yelling, but he can’t help it.”

“Iwa-chan,” he drags at his ears and moans above the sound, “a monster. A curse.” He only guesses at what causes his torment. He did not see the wind nor the distance it traveled nor the despair it carried. But he knows what it meant to do because it’s what all direct attacks on a monarch mean to do.

“Someone is trying to kill me.”

* * *

Skip forward in time now—one week—and look at the morning foot traffic in the Seijoh shopping district. This is an old part of the kingdom, and its buildings are too close together. The leaning walls and jutting stonework give the impression of rows upon rows of teeth growing in improperly. There’s even an alleyway where the second stories protrude so grossly outward that one could lean out the window and butt their head against the neighbor’s across the street.

Down one such alley in this shopping district, between a butcher shop and a tanner’s, is a witch’s studio. Its sign reads:

SUGAWARA’S EVERYDAY  
CHARMS, SPELLS, & TOTEMS

Inside at a humble desk, the witch Sugawara keeps his books with a focused look and a lukewarm cup of tea. Wooden floors, wooden fixtures, and plenty of light leaks in. There are potted plants on every shelf and surface, and the scent of soil and indiscriminate flower fragrance overpower the pungent odors of butchered meat and drying leather filtering in from outside. There’s a ladder leading up to a second landing, a loft with just enough space for a humble straw mattress. There would be more sleeping room if not for the giant clay pot situated right beneath the loft window to grant maximum sun exposure to the perennials it accommodates. The flowers smell like sleep, which is quite special because that’s a scent detectable only at the exact moment one falls asleep. It’s a pleasant, refreshing thing—much like the witch downstairs whose tea has just gone cold.

The bell above the door jingles, and a young man enters. His hair is black and neatly parted, his eyes are narrow and worried, and his skin is one shade paler than is natural for him. He wrings his hands and calls out for the shopkeeper. Sugawara pokes his head around the corner of the entryway and gestures the customer to the table in the center of the studio.

“My name is Daishō,” the customer says as he sinks into a worn wooden chair, “and I need your help. I’ve heard great things about your work, especially when it comes to personal happiness.” And here Daishō pauses. His is a face that smiles by default, but there’s no trace of that smile today. He looks as if he’s frowned all week, and Sugawara sees this immediately. Sugawara’s is a face that smiles with kind intention, and it encourages the nervous Daishō to continue, “A spell—no, a charm. I need to change someone’s mind.”

“Perception altering charms are tricky things,” Sugawara says. He closes his book and walks to the front window. “They have to be made carefully and specifically in order to work the way you want them to.” He considers the row of plants arranged in increasing pot diameter. “And even then,” Sugawara warns, “that might not be what you really want.”

He picks up a 3-inch pot with a springy sprout. Its two leaves and the white creeping up its stem advertise its youth. He walks past the table where Daishō fidgets. “This is my last resort,” Daishō defends, “Mika-chan won’t listen to a word I say! I wouldn’t turn to magic if it wasn’t absolutely necessary!”

Now Sugawara knows, as all respectable witches know, that there is magic in every facet of life, and to say you would only use magic as a last resort is simply ignorant. But Sugawara also knows, as all practical witches know, that taking everyday magics for granted is a profitable misconception. After all, everyday magics are Sugawara’s specialty.

Sugawara carries the sprout into an alcove behind the ladder, out of sight and earshot of his customer. He holds the pot in both hands and leans in for a confidential word. “If you listen to his story,” Sugawara whispers into the leaves, “you could be a vital ingredient in the charm he wants.” The leaves wave hesitantly, and Sugawara hums. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling all he really needs is a good rant—one that enriches his own perception. Why don’t we both listen and see if that’s enough, huh?”

Sugawara and the plant emerge from the alcove. They join Daishō: Sugawara in a chair and the plant on the table between them. The witch smiles with kind intention and says, “Tell me about this Mika-chan, Daishō-san.”

Daishō opens his mouth and a torrent rushes out. It’s nothing like the mysterious, violent wind. This force is entirely made of words weighted with sorrow and just a hint of spite, far removed from the power to shatter windows and tear doors off hinges.

Daishō tells of Mika-chan, who hates how he loves his work more than her. “I don’t think I do at all,” Daishō explains as Sugawara sets a kettle on to boil. “I work in the countryside, you see. I train my team to protect the borders and build up relationships with the farmers who live there. It’s only natural that I get invited to family dinners every week. Even if it conflicts with a date night, how am I supposed to turn down those kind offers?” The plant jostles under the force of Daishō’s indignant deluge. Sugawara sips his new cup of tea.

Daishō tells of his Mika-chan, who would never ask him to stop working for her. “She told me that some people may be perfectly happy in a relationship like that, but she wasn’t one of them. If she would just listen to me, she’d understand. My work is important, and it requires a lot of time. Doesn’t mean I don’t love her.” He finishes his tea and starts on the cookies Sugawara brought out a half hour ago when this rant began.

Daishō tells of his patient Mika-chan, who loves him back and perhaps deserves more than a stale lecture on the value of his career. “My work takes a lot of love, and so does Mika-chan. Not to say that I think of her as another job, but that she—like my job—is worth my time and my love…perhaps I should invite her to the next dinner. That would be more fun than me endlessly defending my job with the same old spiel.”

The torrent dies down at last, and the potted plant basks in the rays of quiet contemplation that poke through the passing clouds of sorrow and spite. Sugawara is no longer at the table. Instead, he is at his desk in the corner, pouring over his expenses. He hears the pause in Daishō’s words and briskly returns. Daishō doesn’t notice the witch’s absence, but the plant does and it, understandably, is a little miffed.

“Still want that perception altering charm, Daishō-san?” Sugawara asks politely, and Daishō shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs, “I think I have something else I should try first.” He stands—cookie crumbs tumble down his shirt—and he makes for the door. Just as Daishō’s hand finds the knob, Sugawara clears his throat loudly and points to a sign in the shop window, the one that displays his services and fees.

“Of course. My mistake. Your consultation fee.” Daishō reaches into his pocket and produces a hefty coin purse. Though it’s a common trend to spell coin purses to look weighted with riches for the sake of appearances, Sugawara knows—much like any miser or pickpocket or frugal shopkeeper would know—that Daishō’s purse is unspelled and simply that fat with wealth.

Daishō places the appropriate amount on the banister and exits in a daze. The bell above the door sings his departure in time with the clink-clank of the coins Sugawara swiftly collects. The plant’s leaves are a little droopy and its stem lacks luster, but Sugawara happily proclaims, “Look at you! There’s more green at the base of your stem now—you’ve grown! You did an excellent job!” He carries the plant back to the front window and chirrups, “You’ve listened to his worries, but you don’t have to carry them for him. He can do that for himself now, it seems. You go back to photosynthesizing. Lots of sunlight for you now, so you can keep growing.” He pulls a silver coin from the stack in his hand and flashes it at the line of proud seedlings in the window. “I think this one will go to some fertilizer, yeah?”

He pockets the coin and places the rest into a lockbox. Back to the books now, a new cup of lukewarm tea at his side. It’s late morning, and Sugawara expects perhaps one or two other customers today. A courier should come by sometime on behalf of a regular customer of his for this month’s charm to ward off nightmares. Word of mouth is helpful, no doubt, but he is only one of many witches in Seijoh, and his services aren’t nearly as flashy or instantaneous as others.

Sugawara looks to the wooden crow figurine perched on his desk, a trinket from some market in his bygone days. He knows it fits perfectly in his hand, but he rarely picks it up anymore. He talks to it plenty, though. 

“Looks like another lean month in another lean year, friend. It’s a frugal life, but at least it’s mine.” The crow’s round, wooden eyes stare, and Sugawara feels accused. “Don’t look at me like that! I mean it. I don’t need glory or fancy things to be happy.” The crow continues to stare, so Sugawara ignores it. He mutters to himself—although he knows his mutters are always heard by many things in his studio. “I swear, bird, sometimes all you do is doubt me.”

Sugawara reviews his budget with thoughts of glory and fancy things clawing at the back of his mind, whining to be let in. But unbeknownst to the witch, the path to glory lies beyond the confines of his mind—specifically outside his shop window, where a carriage pulls to a stop. Its single coat of faded paint and unkept trim are meant to blend in with the crowd, but any common customer would tell you that driving a horse-drawn carriage through the narrow streets of the Seijoh shopping district is a tedious, rookie decision. Of course, the passengers in the carriage are no commoners. Behind the teal curtain of the carriage body sit two people. They each have the squared shoulders of men on a mission and the enchanted swords of the Royal Guard at their sides. Their names are written on an official document that rests on the seat between them. This parchment reads:

By order of Royal Head Guard Iwaizumi,  
To be carried out by First Guards Matsukawa and Hanamaki,  
The witch, Sugawara Kōshi, is hereby summoned  
for an audience with his majesty,  
the Great King of Aoba Johsai.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This story is radically different from my last one. That said, I'm very excited to tell it! If you love fantastical worlds and magic systems and perilous quests, then let this be the story for you! Current goal: weekly updates (gotta aim high, right?)


	2. The Witch in the Grand Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sugawara is summoned to meet the Great King. He's not sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this.

Depending on where you’re from, you may study magic under mentors from different schools of thought. But no matter where you hail from, you’ve certainly heard the ageless truth: Good magic takes time.

Not everything can be accomplished in one moment, in one sitting. This is the first principle of magic Sugawara ever learned. The second is that it is impolite to stare, even at decorative objects, who feel just as self-conscious as people—if not more so. They are made to be stared at, after all.

This is what runs through Sugawara’s head as he and First Guards Hanamaki and Matsukawa navigate through the fifth set of fortified doors on their way to the Grand Hall. Tapestries adorn stone walls and tell the tales of royal lineage. Sugawara fleetingly wonders if the décor was made to intimidate, what with how the noble eyes of kings and queens of old follow his every stiff step.

There is apprehension in the slight twitch of Sugawara’s knees. Hanamaki has that same twitch in his elbows. Matsukawa, in his left eyelid. None of them know why Sugawara is summoned, and none think it their place to ask. At the seventh door, which is a magnificent barrier of white wood and shimmering glass insets, a sign framed in intricate metal vines above the door reads:

GRAND HALL

“You must be the witch Sugawara,” the lone guard posted at the door says. His voice is gruff for a week’s loss of sleep wears on his vocal cords.

“The very one,” Sugawara answers as he studies the lack of pattern on this guard’s breastplate. He has never seen a guard without teal blue lines streaking across the front of their armor. Even the First Guards flanking him have one stripe each. Sugawara decides this man must be of high rank in the Royal Guard.

“I am Head Guard Iwaizumi,” he confirms Sugawara’s suspicion. “I summoned you here to consult with the king.” He nods at Matsukawa and Hanamaki, and the First Guards exit back through the passage of many doors, the tapestries watching them as they go.

Rather than enter, Iwaizumi beckons Sugawara into a quiet corner away from the imposing doors. His whispers are nearly indecipherable above the scratch of his exhausted voice, but Sugawara is quite practiced at listening.

“I’m sure you’re confused. You’ll want answers, and you’ll get them. But first, do you know what lies beyond these doors?”

As this was Sugawara’s first time inside the Blue Castle, he ventures the only logical thought that comes to mind. “The Grand Hall?”

This seems to be half the answer Iwaizumi wanted because he half-smiled and half-nodded.

“Yes. Well, no. Yes and. Beyond these doors is the Grand Hall. It’s where the king conducts all his business. It’s where he meets with his court and heads of state, where he makes decisions that impact the entire kingdom and all its tributaries. The Grand Hall does not just contain the king. The Grand Hall is the king. And the king needs your help.” And here, Iwaizumi deems Sugawara rightly impressed. He strides back to the doors with squared shoulders, and Sugawara follows with breath held in anticipation. The doors creak open, and here is Sugawara’s first glimpse into the world of this Grand Hall, of this Great King. The sight that meets him is unexpected and unforgettable.

It is the sight of the king’s crown hurtling straight towards Head Guard Iwaizumi’s face.

“Iwa-chan! What’s this I hear about you summoning some outside consultant? How dare you defy my orders!”

This is the first time Sugawara ever hears Oikawa’s nickname for the Head Guard. It is certainly not the last time he hears it, nor is it the shrillest time as that comes much later. But it is the first time, and that makes it special in Sugawara’s memory.

For Iwaizumi, this exchange is nothing new. With the partial imprint of jewels marking where the crown struck his forehead, Iwaizumi stalks towards the Great King to return the favor. He smacks the silver headpiece down on the king’s head and huffs, “Wear your damn crown, Shitty-kawa! You have an audience!”

It seems Head Guard Iwaizumi completely forgot about his Grand Hall grandstanding from just moments ago. And though the Great King regards Sugawara with the cool eyes of a worldly man, the witch simply cannot get past the swelling bump on the king’s head from where Iwaizumi forcefully reaffixed the crown. The Great King announces, “It’s too soon to call in help! I can handle this!”

One might think the volume with which the king speaks is a necessary part of talking in a hall with such a high ceiling. Indeed, this is what Sugawara assumes. He does not know of the ceaseless howling between the king’s ears. Head Guard Iwaizumi knows, and so he shouts his reply.

“Oikawa-sama, you don’t have to fix this on your own. Not to mention neither of us have any idea how. Maybe he can help. He stopped Kindaichi’s nightmares.” At this, Sugawara recalls that he forgot to clearly set out the new totem for his regular customer’s courier. He briefly worries that the courier may come by today and leave empty handed, and the customer—one Second Guard Kindaichi—may take his business elsewhere.

“This isn’t a nightmare, Iwa-chan!” The Great King roars to release some of the pressure in his head, but it does not help. “This is a curse!” The king drops to his knees and clutches his head in both hands. The sight alone is enough to startle anyone, but Sugawara is especially frightened for he hears the wailing now, too. It rips through him in an instant, and he, too, falls to his knees.

The cry of a beast with no awareness of anything but agony. It wails in an effort to stave off its wretched torment, and Sugawara cannot tell where his consciousness ends and the howling begins. It rings in the ears of king and witch alike. Their heads throb, their hearts ache, and it’s all Sugawara can do to slog on forearms and knees across the beautiful rug of the Grand Hall to grip the Great King’s head in his hands and stare down into that horrid fury and shriek back, “STOP!”

The cries die down. They don’t disappear, but they shirk back. No one knows quite what just happened, but for the first time in the days since the wailing began, Oikawa can hear himself think.

Sugawara and the king slowly drop their arms in tandem. They are exhausted, and Iwaizumi is confused. He heard none of the wailing. In his week of investigation, in fact, he found that no one in Aoba Johsai could hear it aside from the Great King. That is, until now.

The Head Guard reaches down with strong arms, arms that train daily and fight deftly, and lifts both men to their feet. Iwaizumi fixes a stare as the king fixes his crown, and he says, “Oikawa-sama, I think Sugawara-san can help.”


	3. The Royal Witch and the Intruder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter: a sudden threat

There is something zipping over the grassy plains on the outskirts of Seijoh. It is not the wind we’ve come to know and fear, but it screams all the same. It is midday now, and anyone who happens to look up at just the right moment catches a glimpse of the dark, ever-shifting form. It is foul and fowl in nature, and it screeches with a purpose. Picture this and don’t let slip from your mind.

Now, return to the three men in the Grand Hall. One is plagued by ceaseless wailing, one is exhausted from his weeklong search for help, and one previously expected to be shopping for a loaf of bread this time of day and is instead in the presence of royalty. The king, having regained some faculties thanks to Sugawara, shares his story.

“One week ago, I was awoken by a horrible feeling, and the wailing started. It filled my head and only grew fiercer as days passed. It was at its worst when you arrived. How did you stop it?”

Sugawara feels the stares of tapestries and humans alike. He wonders if the second principle of magic shouldn’t be taught to everyone, not just witches.

“The world would certainly be politer.” The stares are now full of confusion, and Sugawara realizes he spoke aloud. “Apologies, Great King,” he says. “I talk for a living. Sometimes things slip out.”

Oikawa retires to the lavish marbled table in the Grand Hall. It resembles the desk in his bedchamber in that it boasts a map with stolid tokens and dour annotations. The Great King motions to the cushy chair across from his markedly cushier throne and Sugawara takes a seat. Iwaizumi assumes his post at the left side of the king.

“I suspect this is a curse from our kingdom’s most annoying enemy,” Oikawa juts a finger at the daunting words in the northern territory of the map that read:

SHIRATORIZAWA

Iwaizumi clears his throat and says over the king’s shoulder, “I seriously doubt Ushiwaka would resort to cursing you.” Oikawa tents his fingertips in front of his face, partially obscuring his sneer from Sugawara’s vision. “It has to be him, Iwa-chan. That tyrant has an unhealthy obsession with me.”

Iwaizumi reminds the king that he’s made plenty of other enemies, but Oikawa pretends not to hear him. Instead, he pouts the immature pout of a child who takes every opportunity to pout and says, “Although I can understand why. Lots of people obsess over me.” At this, Iwaizumi’s right arm twitches with the impulse to slap Oikawa upside the head, but he thinks better of it for the king has an audience.

It is at this time that Sugawara starts to feel extraneous. Most of his customers nowadays come to him with bad dreams and toothaches, upset stomachs and relationship drama. He knows, from myriad experience, that his magic takes time. His plants do not spring up from the soil ready to handle all woes immaculately. What keeps his practice functioning is his everyday conversations, both with his customers and with his plants.

Sugawara states the truth as he knows it. “Regardless of who it came from, I’m not powerful enough to thwart the wailing for good. Great King, counter-curses take time. If I were a stronger, more powerful witch, maybe I could cut that time in half. But I’m not. And that’s not the kind of magic I do, anyway.”

The Great King pouts the fearsome pout of a ruler who has every reason to pout and says, “Don’t sell yourself short, Sugawara-chan.” He stands and makes his way around the table. “You say you talk for a living? Well, so do I. And it’s much easier to negotiate with diplomats and warlords when I can hear my own thoughts.” The Great King leans back against the tabletop, crosses his arms, and fixes Sugawara with a meaningful stare. “You did more for me just now than any other court healer has done all week.” And now a hand of regal might lands on Sugawara’s shoulder and the king declares, “Consider yourself hired, Royal Witch Sugawara.”

* * *

At the same time Sugawara gets promoted, the loaf of bread he would have bought today is snagged by a street urchin. The urchin flees from the baker’s rolling pin, past the disgruntled courier exiting Sugawara’s studio, and into the busy streets of the Seijoh shopping district. The urchin pauses in her flight, but the baker does not catch her for the baker also pauses.

A dark, formless something swoops through the narrow street. It ricochets off of vendor stalls and slashes at shop signs, screeching its dissatisfaction in an incomprehensible language. The courier ducks back into Sugawara’s, the urchin darts down an alleyway, and the baker retreats behind her window display. All hide, but the dark, formless something has moved on. It is no longer in the shopping district streets; now, it is in the middle of the Grand Hall.

* * *

Shapeless wings beat bouts of rushing air. Anguished screeches echo off high ceilings. A flash of blood red flickers where an eye might be in the mass of indiscernible shadow. All three men witness this the instant the creature appears. It cocks what could be a head at an un-head-like angle, releases one more terrible cry, and touches down. Its jagged darkness retracts into feathers, and the blurry lines of frenzied motion settle into a recognizable frame. A crow the size of a man staggers and stumbles about the Grand Hall. It squawks a distorted, throaty caw, and the men dive away as the being pulses and changes once more.

Talons reshape and beak compresses. The menacing feathers disperse and all that remains is a man the size of a man—a broad-shouldered man—stumbling just as pitifully as he did in crow form. His clothes are tattered, and his short dark hair is dampened with blood. He crashes to the floor, and the beautiful rug of the Grand Hall provides little cushioning for his heavy fall.

All traces of crow are gone now, save for a single wooden figurine in the man’s hand. From his hiding spot beneath the marbled table, Sugawara cannot see the figurine, but he knows it’s there. The Great King, crouching right beside Sugawara, knows this as well for the wailing in his head resonates in time with the brutal magic pulsating from the figurine in the man’s fist.

Head Guard Iwaizumi stands dutifully between them and the sudden threat. His sword is drawn, but the intruder is already unconscious. The only movement about him now is the slow creep of blood staining the orange insignia embroidered on the back of his shirt: the proud emblem the Warriors of Karasuno.


	4. The Warrior's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A call to action from a Karasuno warrior

To the west of the kingdom of Aoba Johsai, through the frigid mountain pass, beyond the sunless forests, past the stagnant swamps, in the center of a cavernous desert wasteland: there lie the ruins of an ancient city. Beneath these ruins is a network of tunnels with pitfalls and traps that lay in wait of foolhardy explorers. In the heart of these tunnels, a bestial remnant of a person curls in on itself in total darkness. With each moan of sorrow and hatred, wretchedness and self-loathing, a wind wails through the underground. It snarls at the damp walls and claws at its own flesh, sending bolts of pain and grief crackling through its core and then out far, far away: through the tunnels, through the Ruined City, the desert, the swamps, the forests, the mountains, and straight into the unconscious form of Sawamura Daichi.

The Great Warrior of Karasuno jerks up with a start as the bolt fizzles down his spine, cutting out his other senses. For a moment, he cannot comprehend where he is, what he is. He is a being of anguish, a wail echoing through forgotten chambers. He is alone and he is afraid.

But gradually, soft torchlight leaks into his vision, the dull throb of life seeps back into his veins, and he realizes that he is in a different kind of underground. A prison cell, to be precise. And he is not, in fact, alone.

Three guards stand at the end of the cellblock, nearly out of Sawamura’s line of sight. From atop a dingy mat of damp straw, sweet and rotten, Sawamura calls out, “Excuse me, but where am I?”

The guards look at him, then look at each other, then they whisper, and finally one splits off from the group and ascends the stairwell at the end of the block. He—Second Guard Kunimi, as is etched into the cross of his enchanted sword—is going to fetch Head Guard Iwaizumi while First Guards Hanamaki and Matsukawa remain with the intruder in stolid composure befitting the Royal Guard.

* * *

Head Guard Iwaizumi is, at this moment, watching a game of chess between King Oikawa and newly Royal Witch Sugawara. Oikawa takes an aggressive approach, seizing more pieces than Sugawara, but the witch dons a calm countenance and guides the Great King into check first. The king frowns, “You’re a much better opponent than Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi matches the frown from Oikawa’s left side. “I have better things to do than play you in chess all day.”

“Like what?” The king challenges with his chin cupped in his hands.

“Like protecting your life, maybe.”

“Two incidents in one week, Iwa-chan. It’s like you want me to die.” The Great King throws an exaggerated sigh at his Head Guard, but Iwaizumi does not retort. The strain in the usual lilt of the king’s taunts is too noticeable. Sugawara eliminates Oikawa’s queen from the board, and the frown on the Great King’s face becomes a scowl of consternation as the Grand Hall doors open and Kunimi beckons for Iwaizumi. They exchange words out of earshot of the chess players, but their departure does not go unnoticed.

Burning with curiosity, Sugawara chances a glance at the Great King only to see that same anticipation flicker back. They wait to follow the guards out of the Grand Hall and down a side corridor, where smooth stone walls turn to greenish-gray bricks and the descent into the dungeon begins. Iwaizumi and Kunimi do not notice the king and witch for their focus lies ahead.

The guards reach the bottom of the stairwell, and Head Guard Iwaizumi makes his way to the last prison cell to consider the battered man inside. Sawamura considers back. He thinks both the dungeon and the thick rope binding his wrists are unnecessary, but he is at least grateful for the bandage someone wrapped around his head while he was unconscious. He ignores the dizzying rush to his head as he stands. His mission is more important than some head wound or some tough-looking soldier, and so he asserts, “I need an audience with the King of Aoba Johsai.”

“Not happening,” Iwaizumi states without hesitation. “Not after that horrifying first impression. Identify yourself.”

The prisoner straightens his posture, wrists still bound, and booms, “I am Sawamura Daichi, Warrior of Karasuno. I’ve come with a request for aid.”

Iwaizumi matches Sawamura’s stance. “I’m Head Guard Iwaizumi. I’ve heard of the land of Karasuno. In the deserts beyond the mountains, right?”

Sawamura gives a smug sniff. He knows something Iwaizumi does not: Karasuno is not a land, but a people. He voices as much which prompts the Head Guard to ask, “You’re nomads, then?”

“That’s how some describe us. In recent years, though, we settled in the Ruined City of the desert. But nomadic or not, Karasuno is a strong people.” Sawamura swells with pride, quite a sight given his tattered clothes and bandaged head. “Not just in survival, but in combat, too. No kingdom nor empire has ever ruled Karasuno.”

Iwaizumi snorts against his better judgment. “No one wants to,” he dismisses. “You live in a wasteland.”

A shadow casts over Sawamura’s face and his lips widen into a grimace masquerading as a smile. “Iwaizumi,” he treads, “you’ve never been to the desert, have you? You do not know what Karasuno is capable of.” There is a glorious menace in his tone, and the Head Guard instinctively clears his throat of any lingering snort and tries for stoicism.

“Why have you come here?”

Sawamura relaxes, and he reveals his purpose. “One week ago, our greatest Source of magic was corrupted. Our crops shriveled, our oases dried out, horrible beasts rose from the clay. I, along with my fellow warriors, flew to nearby domains for help.” Sawamura pauses to swallow around a sizeable lump in his throat. “I used the corrupted Source’s magic to get here as fast as I could, but you saw what I arrived as. My body, my soul, my sanity—I nearly lost it all. I meant no harm, truly! I just…wasn’t in control.”

The warrior’s speech cuts off when First Guard Hanamaki calls from his post at the end of the block, “Iwaizumi-san, the Great King is hiding in the stairwell.” Iwaizumi’s jaw clenches in time with a frantically hushed “Be cool, Makki-chan!” from beyond the slimy wall. Hanamaki remains unapologetic, so Oikawa, now thoroughly outed, strides into the corridor with swaying robes and gleaming crown catching the dimmest light in this murky chamber. His regal trappings draw Sawamura’s eyes, but they do not incite his attention nor alarm quite like the head of mousy gray hair, wide eyes, and agreeable mole that poke out from around the king’s frame. In the moment he sees the witch, Sawamura forgets his mission entirely.

“Oikawa-sama, what are you doing here? Why did you bring Sugawara-san?” The Head Guard pries apart his tightened jaw just enough to utter his indignation.

“Suga—" Sawamura echoes out of a hollow in his chest, but the king is speaking now.

“We were curious! You heard him. His magic went sour one week ago. It might have something to do with the wailing.”

At this, his mission returns, and Sawamura looks to the king and asks, “Wait, you hear it too?”

“We both hear it, Sawamura-san,” Sugawara answers as both he and the king move to stand before the cell. Sugawara notes the warrior’s shallow intake of breath when he speaks. As a Seijoh subject unfamiliar with Karasuno customs and loath to offend, Sugawara hopes it’s not too forward to use the warrior’s name.

Oikawa interjects, “What do you know about the wailing? Is it related to your magic source? What is this source, exactly?”

Sawamura looks as if he has something more pressing to say, but the Great King is looking at him expectantly now, and Sawamura’s disastrous arrival already landed him in a cell. He decides to address the king’s query first and says, “Not a what, but a who. He came to us over a year ago, and—like many who come to Karasuno—he had no place to call home. He is incredibly powerful, and he serves Karasuno well. But I was blind to the torment growing within him. Something pushed him to a breaking point one week ago—that was when the wailing started. He retreated into the underground tunnels, and from there the wails echo ceaselessly. It grew fainter as I left the Ruined City, but I still feel slight reverberations. It seems the wails echo in you, Great King.”

Sawamura has reached the end of his tale, and so he kneels in deference for his final appeal. “On behalf of Karasuno, your sovereign neighbors and hopeful allies: I beseech your aid, Great King of Aoba Johsai. Save Karasuno, save Kageyama.”

Torchlight flickers against algae-slicked walls too drowsy to appreciate the silence that settles in the dungeon. Far above, the tapestries fail to bend their gaze down the corridor, missing the look that passes between the Great King and the Head Guard at the mention of Kageyama’s name. Even the guards posted by the stairwell cannot quite grasp how Oikawa’s face contorts as if he just stepped in feces. But Sawamura witnesses it all, and so he ventures, “You know Kageyama?”

The king gags, “That brat was a part of my court.”


	5. The Warrior's Conviction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karasuno are an interesting people. If only Sugawara could make sense of their warrior.

Think back to a time when Shiratorizawa first pressed its military might against the northern border of Aoba Johsai, when Emperor Ushijima sent an envoy to request the king’s surrender and service to the empire. It was—according to Ushijima—the best use of Oikawa’s tactical brilliance and magical aptitude. This was when Kageyama arrived from Kitagawa Daiichi as a candidate for Oikawa’s court.

Anyone could immediately see the talent and raw power that Kageyama possessed. All he needed was a place to refine and apply his skills, and where better than in the king’s confidence? This was a time when Kageyama improved his magic well past anything the king could rival; a time when Head Guard Iwaizumi spent countless nights watching his oldest friend run himself ragged on the training grounds; a time when Oikawa was younger and rasher and not yet the Great King he is now.

* * *

This time is finished. Now is the time when the Warrior of Karasuno is out of his cell and seated at the marbled table of the Grand Hall in better clothes and better spirits. The Great King did not yet agree to help, but he did mutter earlier with an authoritative flourish, “Many ambitious sorcerers succumb to their power and turn into the monsters that heroes slay in epics. It wouldn’t be right to allow any member of my court, present or past, to become such a thing.” And so, Sawamura is cautiously optimistic.

Guards carry in rotted books about the desert wasteland and Karasuno magic for the king and his Head Guard to pour over while Sawamura charts a route to the Ruined City. Sugawara stands by and, feeling extraneous for the second time today, wonders if he shouldn’t try to pop back home to water his plants. But the Great King made it clear that he wants the witch by his side for the wailing is subdued to a tolerable ringing in Sugawara’s presence. And so, Sugawara leans over the warrior’s shoulder to study the map.

Sawamura’s tongue—jutting out the corner of his mouth in deep concentration—quickly withdraws and his quill strokes falter. Sugawara frets he’s bothered the warrior again and takes a seat across from him so as not to disturb his work. But Sawamura does not continue his charting. He simply stares at the witch and breathes, “Suga.”

It’s not a question, so Sugawara assumes the warrior is trying to remember his name. He helpfully corrects, “Sugawara.”

“Do you know me?” There is a desperation to Sawamura’s burble that Sugawara cannot understand, but he is certain that he is doomed to consistently trouble this warrior.

Sugawara apologizes, “Ah, you’re a famed hero from one of those epics the Great King spoke of? Sorry, but I don’t know the stories of other lands very well.”

“No, that’s not what I—you…Suga, you’re…you are…” Half a thought rams against the walls of Sawamura’s brain and refuses to fully materialize. His mind grasps at some obvious, inconceivable truth, but his lips and teeth and tongue won’t comply. It’s an awful and infuriating thing, like a belch that just won’t come out. Sawamura’s face tinges green with discomfort, blending strangely with the rusty traces of dried blood and sweat. Sugawara notices this, and he—with kind smile in place—searches his pockets for the bundle of ginger root he keeps on his person at all times. Instead, his fingertips graze something soft and damp, and with a curious jerk he finds: a fistful of dirt.

“Ah, damn.” Sugawara curses gently. Still properly mute, Sawamura cocks his head in question, and Sugawara sighs, “I told my plants I’d buy them fertilizer, but I was careless with my words. The coin must’ve overheard me—”

“And turned into fertilizer itself?” Sawamura interrupts Sugawara’s story as if it were a joke he already heard the punchline for. Sugawara smiles through his surprise and asks, “Are you a witch too, Sawamura-san?”

“Daichi,” he corrects, and the corner of Sugawara’s mouth falters at the forwardness. Sawamura continues, “I’m a warrior. But you…you’re a witch?”

“Royal Witch, in fact.” Sawamura raises his eyebrows, and Sugawara quickly claps a hand to the back of his head and says, “Don’t look so impressed, I’ve only been one for a few hours.”

“And before that?” The severity with which Sawamura stares at Sugawara makes the witch wonder if there’s fertilizer on his face. But as Sugawara begins to tell of his humble shop and humbler life, Oikawa’s voice resounds from behind the stacks of moldy tomes.

“Then I’ll go myself!” The king bellows. The very mildew on the books trembles at his conviction, but Iwaizumi is not so easily swayed.

He argues back, “You can’t just leave your kingdom, Oikawa-sama. Not when Shiratorizawa can launch an attack at any moment.”

“Ushiwaka agreed to a temporary ceasefire until the end of the month, so I can ‘come to my senses and surrender.’” The Great King crooks his fingers into quotation marks and mimics the stony brow of Emperor Ushijima. Mildew laughs along at the impression; Iwaizumi simply frowns. The king continues, “Aside from Aoba Johsai, the desert wasteland is the only other territory bordering Shiratorizawa that Ushiwaka hasn’t seized yet. If Karasuno indeed has a settlement there, an alliance is crucial.”

“Then send Royal Guards! I don’t see why you have to be the one to go.”

“Alright then. I’ll send you, Iwa-chan.” The frown now permeates the Head Guard’s entire being. He speaks with the tempo of a nanny burdened with a particularly disagreeable child, “I’m the Head Guard. I cannot leave your side.”

Oikawa slings an arm around Iwaizumi’s shoulder and says, “Then I guess I’m coming with you!” He wears the impish smile of a man who knows he’ll get his way—a smile Iwaizumi is all too familiar with and detests greatly. At Iwaizumi’s unyielding glower, the king adds in a more subdued tone, “I’m the only one who’s ever won a fight against Tobio-chan. It has to be me.”

Iwaizumi lowers his voice, and here Sawamura and Sugawara can no longer hear the exchange from beyond the bookstacks. Only the mildew hears them now.

“If this turns out to be some sort of revenge fantasy, Shitty-kawa, I’ll kill you before Kageyama gets the chance.”

The king throws a grandiose “So mean, Iwa-chan!” to the high ceilings of the Grand Hall as he strides towards the marbled table with a leather-bound journal in his hands. The Head Guard follows, a grumble on his lips, and all the mildews chortle as he goes. Of the fungi world, mildews are known for their cruel brand of comedy.

Oikawa drops into the fanciest chair and reads aloud a journal entry:

“The people of Karasuno are known for their pluralistic culture. They have adopted and adapted countless magical practices. As such, there are no clearly defined subclasses of magic users. While a subject of Seijoh distinguishes between ‘witches’, ‘sorcerers’, ‘healers’, etc. Karasuno knows only one distinction: ‘Sources of Magic’.”

Sawamura pipes up, “That’s what Kageyama is. He’s especially gifted at channeling magic into totems.” Daichi reaches into the lining of his new attire and pulls out the crow figurine. Its round eyes and curved beak are instantly familiar to Sugawara, yet this totem’s stare is not nearly as judgmental as the one back in his shop. No, this crow’s eyes pulsate with the intangible aura of potent magic. Sawamura explains, “Even when not in use, this totem contains incredible power. I don’t intend to use it again, but it remains linked to Kageyama. Simply holding it, I can feel his anguish.” Sawamura pauses, locked in the crow’s gaze. He lets out a full-bodied sigh and asserts, “If we’re to be of any help to him, we should depart soon.”

Oikawa holds up his hand. “Hold on. You want to _help_ Kageyama? If he’s been out of control for this long, he may be irreversibly cursed. In which case, the sensible course of action is to kill him—"

“He can be saved. We will save him.” Neither voice nor gaze falters as Sawamura challenges the king. Oikawa is dumbfounded at the boldness, which causes Iwaizumi to smirk in spite of himself.

“How can you be so sure?” Oikawa questions through barely moving lips. There is no doubt now that Oikawa speaks from his store of Tobio-chan memories. Sawamura may not know what these memories are, but he recognizes the skepticism.

Sawamura directs a finger at the glimmering crown atop Oikawa’s head and says, “Any silversmith with the right materials can make a headpiece like that. It’s just metal and jewels, but no silversmith in their right mind would even try. It’d be treasonous.” Sawamura lowers his hand and never breaks eye contact. “We all agree those metal and jewels are for the ruler of Aoba Johsai alone. We believe in your authority. Belief, Great King, is a powerful thing.”

Sawamura lowers his gaze to the figurine in his hand, and his face mirrors that of the crow’s. Sugawara decides that the look is terribly, terribly sad. Sawamura draws from a memory store of his own, one full of a year’s worth of Kageyama memories—not only of power but of passion, pride, impatience, and impulse—memories of someone who is rightfully Karasuno. Sawamura resolves, “Even if no one else believes Kageyama can be saved, I will not abandon him. I believe.”

The Great King’s expression does not change. He cannot know Sawamura’s memories either, but he recognizes the conviction. The Great King leans forward, crown of precious metals and social construction gleaming in the late afternoon light and says, “Then we shall not let your belief go to waste.”


	6. The Witch's Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made, and supplies are bought. Apologies to Sugawara’s bank account.

For a king to travel far from his kingdom, he needs a disguise. Fortunately, the name Oikawa is a common one for someone hailing from Aoba Johsai, provided the title “Grand King” doesn’t precede it. And so, all Oikawa really needs—and more accurately _wants_ —is a shopping spree. See now as the Great King departs, along with Head Guard Iwaizumi, First Guards Hanamaki and Matsukawa, Royal Witch Sugawara, and Warrior Sawamura for the Seijoh shopping district. He goes in person, for the king insists that he does not trust Iwaizumi nor anyone else to match his fashion sense; and he goes on foot, as Sugawara warns against taking the carriage if he wants to go unnoticed.

Sugawara guides this peculiar party down the steps of the Blue Castle and towards the familiar streets of his home district. All the while, he struggles to keep Sawamura from falling behind and getting lost in the busy intersections and market squares. Karasuno has a much smaller population than Seijoh, and Sawamura is thus easily overwhelmed by crowds. Sugawara pulls Sawamura out of the way of an irate peddler and their cart for the third time in ten minutes, and they rejoin the rest of the group in time to hear Oikawa recap the plan.

“We’ll assemble the supplies we need today, settle affairs, and reconvene at the Westward Inn on the outskirts of Seijoh tonight. There’s a reliable stable there, so we can rent horses and reach the entrance to the mountain pass at dawn.”

The guards nod. Sawamura, though anxious to leave as soon as possible, concedes that they should not be in the mountains during nightfall. Now is the season for flash freezes, after all. Only Sugawara does not acknowledge the king’s directive. He is desperately trying to find the best way to let the Great King know that, while he is very grateful for the opportunity to risk life and limb for a people he’s never heard of, he must graciously decline.

They are at the intersection between the textile row and the hodgepodge avenue Sugawara’s studio belongs to when the king turns to the witch and puts his deliberation to rest.

“Sugawara-chan, you’re thinking about staying behind, aren’t you?”

Sugawara pales, and Sawamura’s gawks, “What? No, Suga has to come!”

Oikawa ignores Sawamura’s distress in favor of surveying the witch. The king says, “I’m certain you’ll be an asset on this journey, and I’m talking about more than just subduing the wailing. But I have no interest in traveling with a reluctant witch, so I won’t force you either way.”

With that, the king pivots on his heel and glides down the street. Even with a hood pulled over his head and his crown tucked safely within the lining of his robe, he attracts the attention of admirers like no other. His guard follows, and Iwaizumi mutters, “Yet he has no trouble traveling with a reluctant Head Guard.”

And now, at the crossroads remain Sugawara and Sawamura, seemingly dismissed until their rendezvous at the Westward Inn tonight. Sawamura clears his throat of residual shock and says, “Suga, I’m not familiar with this area. Will you help me gather supplies?”

* * *

There are times in every person’s life when they find themselves halfway through a moment that feels so practiced and so familiar, that they are certain they’ve lived it before. Perhaps in a dream or in another life, as such things linger in the consciousness. Sugawara reels from one such moment as he stands in the tanner’s shop, watching the owner fit Sawamura with leather armor. Rich, reddish-brown layers pull at his undershirt, and the tips of crisscrossed scars peek out. Sugawara can tell the relative ages of each scar from faded white ridges to barely healed stripes. The warrior catches Sugawara’s eyes in the fitting mirror and says, “You should consider getting some armor too, Suga.”

The owner pulls a strap taut and says, “Sugawara-kun, are you going on an adventure? How unlike you.”

“What do you mean?” Sawamura’s query is for the tanner, but his eyes hold on Sugawara in the reflection. Sugawara, for his part, feels rather exposed.

The tanner chuckles, “Well, Sugawara-kun’s not one to venture beyond the shopping district, let alone leave the borders of Aoba Johsai.”

“I’ve been outside Aoba Johsai,” Sugawara huffs, finally breaking the staring contest with Sawamura. The tanner chuckles once more.

“Really? First I’ve heard of it,” she lilts.

Sugawara exits the shop with a red face and a considerably lighter coin purse. It seems Sawamura, in his frantic flight from the Ruined City, did not bring with him any acceptable form of currency.

“Karasuno is much more egalitarian than Aoba Johsai,” the warrior explains. “We have no use for coinage. Still, it was nice of the tanner to let you pay in installments. And I’ll pay you back in defense and game hunting on our journey.”

Sawamura’s certainty does nothing for Sugawara’s budget as they continue their shopping. At every vendor stall, Sawamura wastes no time explaining their need for a long expedition's worth of provisions. And at every jovial word from the warrior, Sugawara’s patience wears a little thinner. When Sawamura happily hums their plans to the butcher, she heartily assures Sugawara, “No payment necessary for the dried meats—provided you return from this quest with stories to tell!”

As he bursts into his studio, the bell above the door does not ring for it is too startled by the stomp of Sugawara’s feet and the carelessness with which he lobs the bundle of meat onto to table. Sawamura is also startled, and he asks what’s wrong. Before Sawamura even finishes his question, Sugawara erupts, “You sure like to speak for me, don’t you?”

The warrior’s steady brown eyes widen, “Ah! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that…It’s just…”

Now, Sugawara is a tolerant man, but recall that he woke up today as a simple merchant of everyday remedies only to be swept up in a dangerous quest with unfamiliar people. All this to say, Sugawara’s patience just ran out.

“Just what?” The witch snaps, and Sawamura opens and shuts his mouth like a hooked fish. His face tints with green for the second time today. He grips his throat in discomfort. A pitiful, strangled noise escapes him, and Sugawara, along with every plant in his studio, gawks in temperate horror.

“Argh! I can’t say it!” The warrior bellows. The very rafters of the shop tremble, and potting soil sifts down from the loft above. Sawamura miserably tacks on, “I don’t have the words.”

Sugawara sighs the heavy sigh of a man fighting a senseless battle. He unhooks the sack of ginger hanging on the wall and hands a root to Sawamura, who accepts it dutifully. As Sawamura packs up the goods they bought, Sugawara records doleful deductions in his ledger at the corner desk. They chew on spices in silence, and Sawamura decides not to test his luck at speaking again which is just as well for Sugawara is in no mood for a conversation.

As such, he does not speak to the crow figurine on his desk. Indeed, he forgets it’s even there; and yet, on the fourth consecutive expenditure line, his mind wanders to the sad wooden eyes of the warrior’s ragged totem, and his hand slips. He grumbles and resolves to not even look in Sawamura’s direction as he starts on a new line.

But silence and time have a way of sharpening the senses, and eventually Sugawara can no longer ignore the occasional twitch in the warrior’s arm nor his labored breath as he unfastens a shoulder strap of his armor to massage a tight muscle.

“Is the scar on your back healing alright?” Sugawara lets slip before he knows it. Concern trumps irritation, as it often does with the witch. Sawamura takes a moment to roll his shoulders and assess which scar Sugawara means.

“Oh,” he says, feeling the angry pull of his most recent wound, “I think I got that one on my way to the castle.”

“You think?”

“I don’t remember any of the journey, really. One moment I was in Karasuno, the next I was in the Grand Hall. And then a dungeon cell. That damn bird tore into me pretty badly.”

Sugawara considers the warriors words with a long exhale through his nose. The early evening sunlight silhouettes Sugawara at his corner desk, so Sawamura can only guess what expression rests on the witch’s face. He suspects it may be a scowl.

Without another word, Sugawara twists in his chair to root through a cabinet of the ledger desk. He turns back with a small jar of homemade salve in his hands. He crosses the room, drops it in Sawamura’s hands, and says rather coldly, “This should help. Have someone apply that for you before you go to bed tonight and try not to sleep on your back.”

If either the witch or the warrior thought to spare a momentary glance to the desk, they’d see the crow figurine watching them from behind an inkwell. For once, its gaze is devoid of judgement; now, it is only curious. But neither human looks for the sun is setting, the last sack of provisions makes its way into Sawamura’s pack, and it seems Sugawara has made his decision. With tight jaw and sagging shoulders, Sawamura requests the witch’s company to the edge of town before they say farewell, and Sugawara relents. The narrow streets of Seijoh can be quite confusing to foreigners, after all.

And so, they walk, side-by-side, and the scene is once more like a murky dream to Sugawara. Steam pours out of a second-story window and a young man strings his socks out to dry across the way. These certainly are familiar Seijoh occurrences, but they are blanketed in surreal silence. Indeed, his and Sawamura’s footsteps seem to be the loudest sound on the street.

Sawamura pierces through the reverie with a plea in the form of a query, “Suga, don’t you want to see Karasuno?”

Those terribly sad wooden eyes dance across his mind once more, and the witch pulls a smile—one more somber than kind. He understands that Sawamura comes from a strong, proud people, but if this is to be their last conversation, Sugawara decides he should at least be honest.

“The Great King’s the one you wanted help from, not me. Besides, I don’t think my methods agree with the way your Sources use magic.”

Sawamura goes from melancholic to indignant, and Sugawara amends, “Not the pluralistic part—I like that. But…take that totem, for instance. You blame it for your rough journey, but I bet you only talk to it when you need something, right? No wonder it nearly killed you.”

“Because it’s mad at me?” Sawamura ventures.

“Because it doesn’t know you! What did you ask it for, exactly?” The witch eyes the warrior shrewdly. He knows that totems, whether made for everyday use or for grand magics, deserve some lighthearted conversation every once in a while. It keeps them tethered to the world of humans, not to mention keeps humans appreciative of the totems’ attention.

“I asked it to take me to the king as fast as possible.”

Sugawara does not hesitate. “Well, there you have it! It has no way of knowing how to make that trip safe for you, let alone if it should even try! It’s much easier to transport a corpse than a mighty warrior who struggles the whole way, after all.”

Sawamura shrinks from the chastisement which is quite something as he is both taller and broader than Sugawara. Had there been mildew around, it would certainly be laughing at him by now. But it’s only the warrior and the witch and whatever stone walls or stray cats care to listen in. Sugawara relents and asks in a softer tone, “You’re a leader, aren’t you?”

“Karasuno has no king,” Sawamura swiftly corrects.

“No, but you—Daichi—you’re a leader.” This time, it is not a question, so Sawamura does not directly respond. Instead, he asks, “How did you know?”

Sugawara shrugs, “I had a feeling.” Then he tacks on in an even fainter voice, “Your totems are your people, too.”

They reach the edge of the town, where the paved road turns to dirt flanked by waist-high grasses. It’s only two miles to the inn from this point, but in the obscurity of twilight, it may as well be two hundred miles.

Pack full and late season flies buzzing in his ear, Sawamura turns to Sugawara and dares to speak low, honest words that come from a place in his heart just next to the ones that have given him trouble all day.

He asks, “Suga, are you happy here?”

“I live here.”

Sugawara’s response is immediate. It bursts forth without thought or restraint, and he knows Sawamura’s skepticism is justified. He tries again, “I mean, it’s a simple life. And it’s mine.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Sawamura presses, and Sugawara blurts out more.

“Ye—yes. Yes. I am happy here.” He tries not to wince at his clunky speech. He opens his mouth one more time to say, “Please don’t read in to how long it took me to say that.”

He’s certain he’s dreaming again because sound is muffled and all points of vision narrow to Sawamura’s level stare, an invitation to journey past the point where his introspection usually ends. It’s frightening there, and so Sugawara is frightfully glad when Sawamura yields, “Well, so long as you’re happy…”

Pleasantries exchanged through stretched smiles, and the warrior and the witch part ways: the former for the Westward Inn, and the latter for his shop. The stone walls and stray cats pay no more attention to these two for they believe this interaction to be over, and belief is indeed a powerful thing. It turns men into kings and sorcerers into beasts. It consumes whole lands, destroys dynasties, and births chaos. It is cosmic and vast and exceeds comprehension.

But—and this might be just as impressive—it also has the power to slow a warrior’s gait just enough for a shorter, less built witch to catch up to him one mile down the dirt road. For while Sugawara heads home, his steps turn into a jog, then a sprint, and soon the witch barrels into his studio at hazardous speed. The bell above the door shrieks in surprise, and Sugawara absently apologizes for the ruckus as he assembles a pack for an indefinite journey. He bids his studio goodbye for an unforeseeable amount of time and politely asks for all its well wishes. The plants, the bell, the crow, the very walls, floors, and beams all comply.

See now how the witch comes running down the dirt path, calling out to the warrior who whips around with a relieved smile and shoulders so unburdened they may as well bear no scars at all.

“I’m coming with!” Sugawara pants. He gulps and coughs when he catches up, “I just hope my plants don’t die while I’m gone.”

“Don’t worry,” Sawamura beams, “I asked the king to have someone take care of your studio before we even left the castle.”

If Sugawara wasn’t so winded, he’d be more peeved at Sawamura making decisions for him again. Instead, he asks, “How could you be so sure I’d come?”

And Sawamura grins, “I had a feeling.”


	7. The Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa isn’t one to idle, and Iwaizumi never backs down from a challenge.

What do you think the Royal Guards get up to when they aren’t patrolling the Blue Castle? What do they like to do in their free time? How do they behave when they aren’t the disciplined, stone-faced guards that protect the hallowed throne of the Great King?

This is exactly what Oikawa wonders as he, Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa book rooms at the Westward Inn. His crown hides in the layers of his cloak just as the guards obscure their swords. They assess the inn for entry points, check for suspicious enchantments, and park Oikawa in his room for the night, much to the king’s chagrin.

“C’mon, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa whines to his Head Guard. Hanamaki and Matsukawa left to secure the rest of the tavern, but Oikawa is certain they’ll linger at the bar for a good long while.

“It’s safest for you to remain here with at least one guard at all times,” Iwaizumi repeats for the fifth time since arriving. He studies the window lock, draws the curtains, and says, “You insisted on being the one to take down Kageyama. It’s my job to keep you safe until we get to that point. Your boredom is irrelevant.”

“That’s the third time you’ve checked the window. You’re bored too, Iwa-chan.”

The vein in Iwaizumi’s forehead twitches. He’s not sure he’ll survive a single night in the same room as his insufferable charge, let alone a weeks’ long journey. Oikawa hums and makes faces at himself in the mirror mounted on the wall. Iwaizumi watches from the corner of his eye as Oikawa’s silly faces give way to stolid focus and intricate hand signs, practiced and precise. They are the gestures taught to the royal family to focus and harness their internal magic. Oikawa catches Iwaizumi’s gaze and grins, “How about a training match, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi’s frown remains, but his lengthy silence tells another story. “Can’t use my sword. I don’t want anyone here knowing I’m part of the Royal Guard,” Iwaizumi reasons.

Oikawa grins, “Guess you’ll have to get creative, then.”

Iwaizumi’s first thought is: he is not one to shy from a challenge. His second thought: he hates letting Oikawa successfully goad him. His third thought: he would very much like to knock Oikawa flat on his backside. The third thought wins, and now Iwaizumi and Oikawa stand opposite one another in the open space between the inn’s back entrance and its stables, readying for a practice battle. Hanamaki and Matsukawa watch from the inn’s steps, flagons in hand and making bets with one another.

Oikawa reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a staff. It stands just at the level of his chin, and it shouldn’t fit in his sleeve except that it does. In fact, it waits in the sleeve of any garment Oikawa wears, waiting to be called upon. It is one of many magic items passed down from monarch to monarch and is Oikawa’s preferred weapon, which always surprises Iwaizumi for it is neither flashy nor frightening to behold. But Iwaizumi knows that in Oikawa’s hands, it is a fierce weapon indeed.

Oikawa brandishes his staff, Iwaizumi readies his stance, Matsukawa throws his arm in the air, and the match begins.

There is a cloak in Oikawa’s face, obscuring his field of vision—Iwaizumi hurled it in an instant. Oikawa quickly seizes the cloak and tosses it behind him, just in time to see Iwaizumi charge in from the left. Oikawa swings his staff in a downward arc, and Iwaizumi narrowly sidesteps.

Iwaizumi unbuckles his sword from his belt and brandishes it still in the scabbard. Oikawa would laugh at the absurdity, but—seeing how the enchanted glow and fine detail of the Royal Guard’s sword was effectively hidden this way—Iwaizumi undoubtedly got creative.

Iwaizumi dashes, scabbard raised. He brings the scabbard down, and Oikawa blocks the blow. He uses the momentum to attack with the base of the staff, but Iwaizumi counters easily. One would think Iwaizumi is used to fighting with the awkward added weight of the scabbard, but Oikawa knows that his Head Guard is just that good at adapting in close-quarter combat.

Oikawa prioritizes increasing the distance between them. He swings low at Iwaizumi’s feet, forcing the Head Guard backwards. Oikawa quickly steps back and rushes through a series of hand gestures to conjure a spell in his staff. He points the head of the staff at the guard, and a bolt of energy shoots out, crackling with teal light before fading into nothingness. Iwaizumi knows that the force, though invisible, is still hurtling toward him. He predicts its trajectory and rolls sideways. The bushes behind him quake and singe at the impact.

Another light is heading his way. This time, the energy is more elongated, and its light lingers. Iwaizumi dodges once more, noting the slight curve of the force as he moves: a trained projectile. Iwaizumi grimaces and rushes in.

Oikawa finishes another spell as Iwaizumi reaches him. This spell culminates in a sweeping gesture across the length of the staff, and the weapon glows faintly. It is not as strong or as permanent as the enchantment on the Royal Guards’ swords, but it enhances the strength of the staff enough to repel Iwaizumi back an extra foot when Oikawa blocks his attack.

The faint glow on the staff dies out as the spell fades, and Iwaizumi watches the light flicker in Oikawa’s eyes as it goes. Except, the light in his eyes doesn’t disappear because it’s not reflecting the staff—it’s reflecting the trained projectile heading for him.

The projectile slams into Iwaizumi’s left side, sending him flying several feet.

“Ooh, that’s gotta hurt,” Hanamaki shouts.

Matsukawa cups a hand around his mouth to yell, “Come on, Chief! You can do better than that!”

Iwaizumi directs a glare their way and rights himself to face his opponent. Oikawa readies another spell, and Iwaizumi knows he has to close the gap.

He takes stock of the situation. They’ve reversed their starting positions now, and something soft and woolen springs beneath his foot. In one swift motion, Iwaizumi kicks the cloak up into Oikawa’s line of sight once more. The king deftly swipes the offending garment to the right with his staff, expecting another attack from the left. But Iwaizumi is not there. He charges in from the right. Oikawa moves to counter, but Iwaizumi barrels into him ferociously.

Oikawa’s two-handed grip on his staff turns one-handed, which wouldn’t be a problem except that Iwaizumi’s knee is currently pinning that one hand to the ground. The guard brings the scabbard to Oikawa’s throat, eager to claim the match.

But he never gets the chance.

It’s not as if Oikawa thinks Iwa-chan would hurt him, but he cannot stifle the immediate, fleeting fear that arises when something unexpected presses against the throat. The moment the scabbard meets his neck, Oikawa opens his mouth in panic and—

Wails.

All teal light is gone from his eyes now. All that remains is inky, swirling void. He emits an inhuman noise at an unforgiving volume, and it knocks Iwaizumi back further than the projectile or the block ever could. Hanamaki and Matsukawa are on their feet now, shouting incomprehensibly at the sound, but it’s over in an instant. Oikawa’s mouth is closed, and only the lingering soreness in his throat and ringing in everyone’s ears suggests that there was ever any wailing to begin with.

The guards stare at one another in shock, Oikawa balls his fists in the hood of his cloak, and somewhere in the stable a horse whinnies in malcontent. The innkeeper pokes their head around the corner, unnerved, and squeaks, “Sirs, two of your party members just arrived.”


	8. The Merchants of Datekō

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Westward Inn offers home-cooked meals and a common gathering area to meet and swap stories with other travelers, all at an affordable price! Gambling is not permitted on the premises by Seijoh law. So don’t let us catch you doing it.

Dinner at the inn is pleasant and hearty. Before dinner, however, is tense, and after dinner is incredibly rowdy. Here is “the before”:

The party members follow the innkeeper inside and slide into the benches of an old corner table. Though the wails in Oikawa’s head grow fainter with each passing second, Sugawara hears them clearly and Sawamura feels the vibrations in his fingertips. Oikawa tumbles into his seat, hood pulled so low only his ashy chin and bloodless lips can be seen. He clutches at his head through the fabric, and Iwaizumi realizes why the king has been so restless all night. The wailing never left him, after all.

“What happened?” Sugawara asks as he darts his eyes between Oikawa and each of the guards.

Oikawa slowly loosens the grip on the top of his head and places his palms flat on the table top—slow, controlled, tense—and Hanamaki answers with his usual tact, “Oikawa won the match by screaming. Sent Iwaizumi flying twenty feet, landed on his ass.”

“Fifteen feet, maybe. Don’t exaggerate,” Iwaizumi grumbles, but the table does not miss how he massages his bruised lower back. He turns his attention to the king and asks, “What the hell was that, anyway?”

“I channeled it,” Oikawa whispers through barely moving lips. “The wailing magic. I opened my mouth and it just…poured out.”

Sugawara’s mouth hangs open. “You channeled a curse? I didn’t think that was possible.”

“It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced,” Oikawa muses darkly. His voice trembles with what his companions mistake for fear, but the old corner table of the Westward Inn knows better. It feels the thrill of unprecedented power surge through the king’s fingertips, and its surface singes ever so slightly beneath his palms.

Oikawa discretely folds his hands in his lap and peeks at Sawamura from the shadows of his hood. “If this wailing is Tobio-chan’s doing, then I have to know, Sawamura-kun: What do you know of his magic? How has he evolved in the time you’ve know him?”

The warrior crosses his arms and answers in an even tone, “As you know, Kageyama doesn’t just have powerful magic of his own, but he’s blessed with the ability to channel others’ magic as well. And he does it entirely on instinct. I’d never seen a Source like that until I met him. So effortless and confident.”

Sawamura knows he isn’t sharing anything new, so he tacks on, “But he’s emotionally distraught now, and that’s only intensifying his power and weakening his control.” Sawamura pauses. The tip of Oikawa’s nose is visible now, and the giddy flare of his nostrils irritates the warrior to no end. Sawamura pushes, “I have to wonder, though, why would he target you after all this time? Tell me, Oikawa, why did Kageyama leave your court?”

The scents of honeyed bread and salted meats waft from the kitchen and bring some color back to the lower half of Oikawa’s face. He thrusts his chin out just enough to meet the warrior’s gaze from beneath his hood, hands folded so neatly in his lap.

Oikawa speaks with practiced grace, “You’re right. The moment he arrived, I knew Tobio-chan was powerful. And all he wanted was to cultivate that power. I trained with him on occasion. He never once held back. He was a great fighter and an excellent sorcerer—a true genius.”

“Sounds like an incredible ally,” Sugawara ponders aloud with his chin in his hands. His tone is light, but he doesn’t miss the way Oikawa spits out his words of acknowledgement.

The king grimaces, “You would think so, but at the time he was a threat. There were…insurrectionist plans in my court, and Tobio-chan got involved. By the time I expelled the instigators, Tobio-chan had already run.” Oikawa delivers this information and stares until Sawamura is forced to blink. Then he concludes, “That was the last I heard of him until you showed up, Sawamura-kun.”

Sawamura leans back, arms still crossed. Oikawa watches as he all but forces the warrior to retreat, and everyone seems to remember that they are, indeed, in the presence of royalty. Sawamura recalls this as well, but he also recalls the day his fellow warrior Tanaka carried a half-dead, weather-beaten Kageyama in from the fringes of the Ruined City, and Sawamura knows there’s a difference between running away and being driven out.

* * *

Let us look back to before Kageyama joined Karasuno, before he arrived at the Great King’s court, even before Oikawa Tōru ascended the throne: during the reign of his older sister, the Great Queen.

One night, on the eve of the annual assembly of the Higher and Lower Courts, Tōru looked up from the chessboard between them to ask his sister why the court has two separate bodies. The Great Queen replied, “How many tributary domains does Aoba Johsai oversee?”

Tōru (ever the attentive student) answered, “Thirty-nine.”

The queen nodded and moved her knight out front. “Thirty-nine lands each with different histories, cultures, and leadership. They send their policymakers to the Lower Court to advise me on matters of state. That’s how I know how to best serve everyone under the rule of Aoba Johsai.”

“And the Higher Court?” Tōru asked, hand hovering above his bishop.

“They are the successors of the tributaries’ leaders.”

Tōru (ever the perceptive strategist) confirmed, “They’re hostages.”

The Great Queen pulled an acerbic smile, proud of her brother’s insight and remorseful for the pressures that await him on the throne. Of course, Tōru didn’t know that he would be king soon, let alone at all. In this moment, only the Great Queen knew of her plans to abdicate. That conversation would come later.

The Great Queen leaned away from the board, her full attention on her brother, and said, “Accountability is a two-way street, Tōru. There are many influential leaders in the tributaries who would love to usurp our family’s authority. If they keep their grievances limited to the Lower Court, then nothing has to happen to their would-be rulers in the Higher.”

“Why would the advisors of the Lower Court need someone in the Higher Court? Why not seize power for themselves?”

The tilt of his sister’s head and the quirk of her lips made Tōru suspect that she thought his question naive. She replied solemnly, “Name. Lineage. Those things have tremendous power. Listen, Tōru—” The Great Queen rose and circled the table to Tōru’s side. She set her hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “The courts are a resource. Some members are your allies, some are not. There may come a time when someone stronger, smarter, and more influential challenges you. You must be prepared to do what it takes to defend your sovereignty.”

* * *

Return now to the inn after Tōru’s coronation, after Kageyama’s corruption, and after the pleasant and hearty dinner at the inn. Here is “the after”:

Oikawa slams his hand down on the disgruntled table and roars with laughter as Iwaizumi and Sawamura enter minute three of their arm-wrestling match. Sugawara stands behind the warrior, jumping up and down and screaming at the top of his lungs. He’s probably rooting for Daichi, but it’s difficult to distinguish cheers from jeers when he’s this riled up. The other patrons of the tavern gather to watch and place bets, and Matsukawa and Hanamaki retreat to the bar to get away from the noise.

Sawamura grips the edge of the anxious table with his other hand as minute four ticks by, and Iwaizumi grins knowingly. He trains daily with the Royal Guard, and he recognizes the telltale signs of an opponent on the verge of defeat. The glint in their eyes, the change in their breathing, the slightest slip of the elbow, the minutest spasm in the bicep. Sawamura recognizes this too a split-second after Iwaizumi, and his arm goes down. Sugawara spouts a high-pitched expletive in time with Oikawa’s hail of praise, and one would think they were the ones competing what with how red-faced and breathless they are.

Sawamura claps a congratulatory hand to Iwaizumi’s shoulder and makes his way over to the bar, trying to inconspicuously massage his forearm. Not a moment later, a patron slides into the now open seat across from Iwaizumi.

Neatly combed brown hair, breezy smile, and eyes lidded with sarcasm, the stranger laughs, “Some strength you’ve got there, friend.”

Iwaizumi grunts an affirmative and glances momentarily at Oikawa, gauging his king’s status on instinct. Oikawa is maniacally slapping Sugawara on the back and chattering away. The excitement dislodged his hood somewhat, and Iwaizumi relaxes by a fraction.

The man continues, “Whatdya say to challenging my guy? Put some money on it?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to a figure seated at a table across the room, who wordlessly rises to full height and stalks over. The light hits his face: sharp eyes, white hair, shaved eyebrows. He pauses behind the grinning man, and glowers down at Iwaizumi in a stony silence. Oikawa’s chattering ceases.

Now ordinarily, Iwaizumi would turn down such an offer for several reasons. His arm aches from his match with Sawamura, this new challenger is the size of a bear, and Iwaizumi—on principle—does not gamble. But, ordinarily, Oikawa is not there to drape an arm around Iwaizumi’s shoulder and holler, “Iwa-chan can _totally_ take him!”

“Excellent!” The man claps and switches positions with his companion. He, too, drapes an arm around his champion’s shoulder and introduces them.

“Futakuchi of Datekō. And this here’s Aone. And we’re about to make five gold.”

Iwaizumi opens his mouth to protest, but Oikawa has already shaken Futakuchi’s outstretched hand and sensibly skirted out of Iwaizumi’s reach. The crowd regathers, the coins hit the wary table, and Iwaizumi has no choice. Futakuchi throws down his arm, and the match starts.

In spite of his fierce appearance and unreadable expression, Aone does not put up nearly as much of a fight as Sawamura. Iwaizumi hears Oikawa cheer and brag in one ear while Sugawara screams in the other, and he sees the telltale signs of defeat in Aone. He grins and primes for the kill.

Then, something peculiar happens.

A tugging sensation. It reaches deep into his core and chips away. Intangible and raw, it claws at his confidence, weakens his muscles, drags the smirk off his face and plasters it onto Aone’s—his first show of emotion yet.

A hollow burn floods the vacuum in his chest, and Iwaizumi becomes horribly aware of the telltale glint in his own eyes and the hitch in his breath. Elbow slips, muscle spasms, hand hits the stunned table. The match ends in under half a minute.

Iwaizumi retracts his arm in an instant, and Futakuchi whoops triumphantly. Oikawa and Sugawara settle into their seats and the three at the bar drift back to the exhausted table. Iwaizumi dully hears them and the rest of the patrons as they pay out their side bets and disperse. He flexes his fist open and closed; the pain is gone now, but he’s drained in a way not even fighting Oikawa achieves.

“What was that?” Iwaizumi rasps. Futakuchi pauses from shoveling his winnings into his bag and grins.

“Some perception you’ve got there, too, friend. Show him, Aone,” Futakuchi lilts as he slides onto the bench beside his compatriot. Aone pulls back the sleeve of his right arm to reveal a bracer encasing the length of his forearm. The bracer is made of leather with thin strips of iron crisscrossing down and around the entire piece. It’s fine work, save for the traces of rust at the edges of the crosses.

Sawamura accuses, “You can’t use magical objects in arm-wrestling!”

Futakuchi chuckles, “Never specified that in the rules. Besides, this is no ordinary magical object. This baby doesn’t draw on the user’s magic—it takes from its opponent.”

“You used my own magic against me,” Iwaizumi croaks in disbelief as he cradles his arm to his chest. It’s rare to see the Head Guard so shaken, but it’s not every day that one’s magic is stolen so blatantly.

“That’s violating,” Iwaizumi mutters to which Futakuchi rolls his eyes.

“It’s called progress,” he supplies. “Datekō’s on the leading edge of new magic here. Our artificers are doing things you’ve never even dreamed of. Haven’t you ever heard the best offense is a good defense?”

“Hold on,” Sugawara pushes his way into the conversation. The red of his face has settled now, but this new bit of information reignites his interest. He rarely witnesses foreign magic so closely. “I’ve never heard of anyone being able to extract someone’s magic against their will, let alone use it. It’s not possible—or, at least, it’s not sustainable.”

At this, Futakuchi flashes a defensive, toothy smile. “Oh, it’s possible. Intrinsic magic always wants to return to its source, right? Well, this bracer lets you pull that magic out and return it angrier than when it left.” He finishes sweeping up his winnings, and Iwaizumi scowls over the lingering ache in his wrist.

“You’re right, though,” Futakuchi continues. “You can only hold on to so much external magic for so long, so it’s not sustainable. For now.” Here, Futakuchi winks at Sugawara, and Sawamura bristles slightly. He continues, “The magic used to win an arm-wrestling match is small enough to work with—no offense—” Futakuchi nods Iwaizumi, whose eyes narrow, “—but with the proper resources, we’ll be able to sap entire infantries in a second. Eventually, we might not even need physical contact to do it. Imagine: a whole army outfitted with these bracers. They’d be unstoppable!”

Futakuchi spreads his arms out in the air, inviting those at the table to join him in his vision. The means, the magic, the promise of war and profit—his words render everyone at the table speechless. All but one.

“Whose army?”

Oikawa’s gray and gossamer voice cuts through Futakuchi’s revelry. The Datekō merchant falters; Iwaizumi, too, jumps in his seat. He forgot the king was seated right beside him, and for that the Head Guard quietly berates himself for letting a trivial competition distract him from his charge.

Futakuchi shakes off the chills spreading through his spine and replies, “Why, Aoba Johsai’s, of course. Provided the Great King invests.”

“And why should the king invest in something so _unethical_?” Oikawa challenges. Futakuchi’s thin smile stretches into spider silk. He may not know to whom he speaks, but he recognizes love of country when he sees it. And sometimes, he just can’t help himself.

“If he doesn’t see the value of our work, I’m sure any number of his enemies would.”

Iwaizumi prevents Oikawa from rising. In the interest of staying disguised, he deems it best not to react too strongly. All this conveyed in a single hand on the shoulder, and Oikawa relents.

Futakuchi chirrups, “But I’m sure he’ll invest once we secure an audience with him. This is the Great King of Aoba Johsai we’re talking about here. He’s not stupid. Shiratorizawa’s breathing down his neck—he’ll have to mobilize the Royal Guard into an army eventually. And as far as ethics go, the Great King’s certainly not above dishonorable tactics.”

“Take that back.”

It is Iwaizumi who bares his fangs now. It comes so suddenly that Futakuchi startles into compliance, “…He _is_ stupid?”

“No—” Iwaizumi’s forehead vein throbs “—the other thing. The Great King’s not dishonorable.”

At this, Futakuchi and Aone exchange a prolonged glance. Then, Futakuchi bursts into laughter. He slings himself over Aone’s right shoulder and gives in to his roiling amusement. Amidst this display, Matsukawa and Hanamaki find themselves now holding both Oikawa and Iwaizumi down in their seats, and Sugawara and Sawamura are wholly uncomfortable.

“Boy,” Futakuchi recovers, “you all are some die hard loyalists, aren’t you?”

Before anyone can respond, an exasperated cry carries across the inn. It’s long past nightfall now, and the glow of the fireplace illuminates the haggard man in the doorway. His mop of black hair is disheveled, his face glimmers with sweat, and he points an accusatory finger at the Datekō duo.

“Futakuchi! Aone! Where have you been?” He advances and both called-out men have the decency to shirk somewhat.

“Moniwa-san, I—” Futakuchi begins, but Moniwa won’t have it.

“Why are you even here? Our lodge is a mile away!”

“Word of mouth—” Futakuchi tries again, but Moniwa catches the glint of gold peeking out of his pack.

“Have you been gambling? I expect this from Futakuchi, but you ought to know better, Aone!”

And here the man named Moniwa, who just spent the better half of three hours searching for his troublesome traveling companions, drags Futakuchi out of the Westward Inn by his ear as Aone sheepishly follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, y'all! Hope you enjoy the chapter!


	9. The Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the night before the journey officially begins and no one can sleep, least of all Sawamura.

Sawamura stares at the ceiling of his room at the inn, eyes pulsing with the ache of a barely-closed head wound. He realizes that the rambunctious events of the evening distracted him from the pain, but now the silence of the room lets it all back in. When a particularly mean-spirited throb strikes, he screws his eyes shuts and rides it out.

It passes, and he wonders if it isn’t worsened somewhat by Kageyama’s anguish echoing out of the king. He wonders if Oikawa isn’t in desperate want of a distraction as well—the king _was_ the one to suggest arm-wrestling in the first place. He wonders if having Sugawara stay in the same room is really necessary to subdue the wailing for the night.

Sawamura follows that thread, curious where it might lead. The witch, the Royal Witch, who lives in a loft above a studio and talks to plants and has fertilizer in his pockets; who cheers for his companions so fanatically that his face becomes of a beet-red mask of screaming lines and fitful passion; who, for better or for worse, is committed to this journey.

Sawamura thinks it’s for the better. He thinks it’ll do Sugawara good to see that his people’s magic is much better than he can demonstrate, and perhaps the witch will have some advice to offer once they reach Karasuno. And who knows? Perhaps the witch will come to like Karasuno…

The thread reaches its end. Not because Sawamura dropped it, but rather it just…ends. There are no further thoughts to explore on the matter, although Sawamura is certain there’s a trace of something just past the end of the line, a wisp of an idea. He reaches for it, grappling in much the same manner as one tries to remember a dream upon waking: impossibly vivid and aggravatingly fleeting.

Sawamura pushes past the pulsating pain in his head, but he can only remember the act of remembering. And now his eyes are dry, and his spirits are worn.

He decides he’s stared at the ceiling long enough, so he goes down to the main lobby for another distraction. There, he finds Matsukawa at a small round table, mug of tea in hand. For discretion’s sake, they refrain from titles like ‘First Guard’ in public, which is perfectly fine with Sawamura. He never planned on learning the many ranks of the Royal Guard anyhow for Karasuno only has one kind of honorable distinction: warrior.

“Matsukawa,” Sawamura greets as he slides into a seat opposite the guard.

“Sawamura,” Matsukawa nods through a half-lidded gaze.

“Hanamaki,” Hanamaki contributes as he joins the duo with a mug of his own.

Sawamura listens to the crackle of the hearth and the comfortable silence between the guards. The atmosphere loosens the tension in his head enough to allow him to think and speak clearly. “I never thanked you two personally for your help,” Sawamura says. “So, thank you.”

Neither guard is quite sure how to respond, but Matsukawa tries, “Well, it’s part of our job.” Hanamaki hums in assent.

“Why do you do this job?” Sawamura asks before he thinks better of questioning their help. “For money? Pride?”

Hanamaki all but downs his drink and leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the side. “Little bit of both, I guess,” he says. “My mother was a guard, and her parents before her. It was a pretty obvious choice for me.”

Sawamura nods and looks to Matsukawa now, who deadpans, “Money.” His curtness draws a faint exhale of surprise from Sawamura, which in turn brings a smirk to Matsukawa’s face. The guard continues, “At least, that’s why I signed up in the first place. But wouldn’t you know it? I actually ended up liking the guy.”

At this, Hanamaki chuckles into the dregs of his tea. It seems that both guards share the sentiment, and it prompts Sawamura to comment, “He doesn’t really act like a king, does he?”

He meant it politely—as politely as one could when evaluating royalty—and the guards took it lightly—as lightly as they could when also terribly serious. The result is a sizeable pause in conversation, and the ache in Sawamura’s forehead swells.

Finally, Hanamaki asks, “How should a king act, Sawamura-kun?”

* * *

On the second story of this inn, at the end of the hall, the other half of the party settles in for the night. Or rather, Iwaizumi tells Oikawa to go to bed, but the king insists he and Sugawara finish their chess game.

“Who knows when we’ll next get a chance to play, Iwa-chan?” The king grins at Iwaizumi’s scowl, and Sugawara suggests they play for fifteen minutes at most then call it a night.

And so, they borrow a board from the innkeeper and arrange the pieces from memory with only one pawn’s position contested. In the end, Oikawa lets Sugawara decide on where to place the piece, and the game resumes.

Oikawa evades check and captures Sugawara’s remaining knight. Sugawara reaches for a pawn, but falters when a particularly remorseful screech cuts through the ongoing current of wails. The king clutches his head instinctively, and Sugawara flinches. When the shriek subsides, Oikawa lets out a sigh.

“Sugawara-chan, what do you know of curses?”

The witch wills his scrunched-up shoulders to relax and utters, “That’s not really my area—”

“Not your area of expertise, I know,” Oikawa interrupts. “Humor me. I have my own knowledge of curses, but I’d like an outside perspective.”

Sugawara thinks for a moment, abandoning the game. “The way I learned it, a curse isn’t really a type of magic. Any spell or charm could be a curse if it’s used to inflict harm,” Sugawara muses. “It’s about intent. Intent born of pain and hatred. And if left unattended, those things can last forever.”

“Forever?” Iwaizumi asks, which surprises Sugawara for he didn’t expect the Head Guard to be interested in magic theory.

Sugawara replies, “Well, like Oikawa-san mentioned earlier, there’s a point of no return. In all those epic stories, people who are cursed or overrun by their own corrupted magic often undergo physical, bestial transformation. Gradually at first, but eventually there comes a point at which no one can undo what’s been done.” He looks up at Oikawa and asks, “My king, do you think what Kageyama’s doing to you is a curse?”

Oikawa does not respond for a long stretch of time. He twirls a captured pawn around his knuckles and avoids Sugawara’s gaze. Finally, he concedes, “I’m not sure.”

He sets the pawn on the table and listens to the rustle of Iwaizumi sitting down on the bed behind him. Just picturing the frown on his Head Guard’s face is enough to weigh down the corners of his own mouth.

“Given my history with Tobio-chan, it’s no coincidence that I’m the one getting the worst of the wailing,” Oikawa reasons aloud. “But what you said about intent…nothing about this feels planned in the least. And Sawamura said Tobio-chan was out of control. If curses can happen unconsciously…”

Oikawa trails off, lost in thought. From his position, Sugawara sees Iwaizumi’s intense glower plain as day, and he does not miss how a matching expression materializes on the king’s face. Sugawara balls his fists in his lap and whispers, “I really do hate curses.”

“Because of the irreversible fate of the victim,” Iwaizumi assumes through barely moving lips. Sugawara nods at first then shakes his head.

“The curser, too,” Sugawara admits at the risk of sympathizing with the source of the king’s torment. Oikawa quirks and eyebrow, so Sugawara clarifies, “To hurt someone beyond the hope of healing—“ Sugawara shakes his head slowly, side to side, “—to curse someone is to curse yourself. At least, that’s what I believe.”

Oikawa’s frown lines slacken somewhat. He leans back, which is a peculiar sight given that they’re sitting on stools, and says, “I’m surprised then that you don’t specialize in breaking curses, Sugawara-chan. You’d help even more the people that way.”

Sugawara chuckles mirthlessly, “There’s no way I could handle something as volatile as a curse.”

Oikawa hums, “Sounds to me like you’re afraid of your own potential, Sugawara-chan.”

And here Sugawara lets out a long exhale through pursed lips. Perhaps it is the long day of unanticipated change and travel that makes Sugawara say what he says next; perhaps, it is his nearly depleted savings or the ceaseless wailing or the way the Great King keeps nudging him into the fray; perhaps, it is the scrutiny Sawamura applied to his life at the edge of the Seijoh shopping district. Whatever it is, Sugawara lets slip words unbecoming of a humble witch in the presence of royalty.

“Potential seems to get people banished around here.”

* * *

”How should a king act, Sawamura-kun?”

“You know—“ Sawamura waves his hands ambiguously, “—kingly. Making demands and sending people out to fight and die for the crown. That sort of thing.”

Now, Karasuno has no king nor any kind of centralized authority, and so Sawamura’s idea of how a king should act is purely anecdotal. Both First Guards know this, so Hanamaki says after a contemplative pause, “There may have been a time where that was true of Oikawa-san, but not anymore.”

Matsukawa adds, “He wasn’t always the most reliable ruler. He shut himself off—from his guards, from his court. There were even rumors he was dead for a while. But he’s made a lot of changes in an effort to rebuild his people’s trust, especially in the last year. And I think—” Matsukawa flickers his gaze to the glowing embers of the nearby hearth, “—I think he regrets what happened with Kageyama.” He looks back to Sawamura and finishes, “Especially if it led to him being corrupted.”

Hanamaki swirls his glass to watch the disintegrating tea leaves dance and murmurs, “He could stand to act more kingly every now and then, though. It’d be safer to send a proxy to Karasuno instead of taking it all on himself.” Hanamaki brings the mug to his lips and tips it back if only for something to do. Dregs catch in his throat, and he coughs through the bitter regret to say, “People give him a lot of crap for his leadership skills, but they forget that his were forged in fire. They forget—” and here the dregs win out and Hanamaki devolves into a fit of mild choking. Pushing his remaining mug of tea into Hanamaki’s hands, Matsukawa completes the thought.

“They forget he was only twelve when he ascended the throne.”

* * *

“I didn’t banish him.”

Oikawa’s voice is painfully calm, so much so that Sugawara can hear his own heartbeat in the otherwise silent room—in conjunction with the wailing, of course. Oikawa continues, “I didn’t banish Kageyama. He fled. There’s a difference.”

Sugawara opens his mouth to apologize, but the words won’t come out. Menace is practically a spell of muteness when applied properly, and the Great King appears to be a master at it. Fortunately for Sugawara’s sake, Iwaizumi comes over to rest a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder and says, “Sugawara-san, will you go fetch us some water?”

Sugawara locks eyes with Iwaizumi and feels his voice return. “Ah. Yes. I’ll go do that.”

Sugawara is out of the room and down the stairs by the time the door swings shut. The creak of the bottom step under Sugawara’s foot catches Sawamura’s attention from across the main lobby, but the witch exits through the backdoor before the warrior can wave him over.

Sawamura thanks the two guards once more for their aid and bids them goodnight. He pokes his head out the back entrance and lets the cool air of the night first incite then soothe his headache.

Sugawara stands motionless at the pump, a bucket in hand. Sawamura strides over and asks if he needs any help at which point, Sugawara jumps.

“Oh! Sawamura-san, you surprised me.” Sugawara settles into the motion of drawing up water and mumbles, “I’m fine, just thinking.”

Sawamura bends slightly to pick up the bucket when Sugawara fills it to the point of overflow, but the witch beats him to it. Sugawara offers a distracted smile—more of a twitch—and Sawamura asks, “What’re you thinking about?”

“Just…how intimidating the king can be,” Sugawara confesses.

Sawamura hums, “That’s funny. I was kind of learning the opposite just now.”

Sugawara walks through the door Sawamura holds open for him and ponders aloud, “He’s a complicated leader.”

Sawamura makes a noise that could be interpreted as agreement, and they ascend the stairs together. They reach the top of the flight, and suddenly Sugawara jabs an elbow into Sawamura’s gut, stopping him in his tracks and nearly sending him tumbling backwards. Sawamura grips the banister in time and is about to voice his exasperation when he glimpses Sugawara’s expression. He knows this look for the witch wore it just this afternoon in the Grand Hall as the Great King and the Head Guard deliberated behind dusty book stacks. Sugawara is listening.

* * *

The moment the door closes behind Sugawara, Iwaizumi lifts his hand from Oikawa’s shoulder and wrests the king’s hood off his head. Oikawa gives a shout of protest, but it’s too late. The sight is seen.

Two stubs of dark brown keratin peak up through his tangled locks. The beginnings of horns, much like one would find on a juvenile goat.

Iwaizumi sighs, displeased but not surprised. To look at his face now is to know that the Head Guard has seen this before.

“I knew it,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “How long?”

The king looks askance and answers, “Since we sparred.”

“When you first used Kageyama’s magic?”

Oikawa nods, and Iwaizumi decides without hesitation, “We’re going back first thing in the morning.”

“Iwa—“ Oikawa starts, but Iwaizumi hears none of it.

“Matsukawa and Hanamaki will go on to Karasuno, but I’m taking you and Sugawara-san back to the castle.”

“I’m not going ba—“ Oikawa tries again. No such luck.

“It’ll just get worse,” Iwaizumi warns.

“It won’t—“

The tapestries and stone walls of the Blue Castle know many secrets, as do the wooden beams and sagging floorboards of the Westward Inn. Few of any such secrets will human beings like Iwaizumi ever be privy to. But the words the Head Guard spills now belong to a secret only he and the Great King share, and not even they know the whole truth of the matter—the truth of the night Kageyama disappeared.

Iwaizumi can only speak to what he knows, and thus he speaks in fear.

“Did you forget what happened last time? The state you were in? The _thing_ you were becoming? You’re lucky Kageyama wasn’t actually leading the coup. If he was, he would’ve killed you. And the kingdom would’ve praised him for it.”

Oikawa draws a deep breath and says on the exhale, “Iwa-chan. I can handle this. I’m still me. I can still think clearly. These things aren’t even noticeable under my hair. They barely even qualify as horns.” Oikawa scratches at the right bump as if to prove to himself that it was even there. Iwaizumi crosses his arms, unconvinced.

“You can handle it? So, when you riled up those Datekō smugglers, that was you handling it? When you terrorized Sugawara-san just now? When you lose your temper at every mention of Kageyama? This curse is making you rash. If word of this reaches the court, there’ll be another insurrection.”

Oikawa tugs his hood back over his head and huffs, “I’m not the same person as I was then. I know when I go too far, when I push too hard. I won’t let myself get like that again.”

Iwaizumi only stares, so Oikawa adopts a tall posture and a tone he hardly ever uses with the Head Guard.

“I’m not asking for your approval.”

They stare at one another for a long, long time. So long, in fact, that their strained silence reaches the perked ears of the witch down the hall, who at this moment swings an elbow into Sawamura’s gut.

“Is that an order, then?” Iwaizumi eventually whispers.

“…Iwaizumi. I won’t use Kageyama’s magic again. You have my word.”

All Sugawara really hears is “Iwaizumi”. But when uttered in Oikawa’s voice, the name is enough to startle the witch into backing away from the closed door. He stumbles right into Sawamura’s room and collapses on the bed, water sloshing out of the bucket he drops at his feet. The warrior closes the door behind him, anxious to know what Sugawara overheard, to know more about this king who goes from admirable to petrifying in the flap of a wing.

Yet Sugawara quickly dons a jittery smile and explains, “I feel kind of rude. I think Oikawa-san and Iwaizumi-san are having a private conversation.” He looks about the room for a distraction—a tactic Sawamura is all too familiar with tonight. He settles on, “I think I should give those two a little more time before I go back. Do you still need to apply that salve?”

Sawamura notices the dry wringing of Sugawara’s hands but says nothing. He pulls a stool up to the edge of the bed and sits facing away from the witch. Unfastened straps of leather armor shrug off his frame, undershirt following, and he tries not to wince as the motions tug at the healing skin on his back.

Slick salve, warm hands. At Sugawara’s every hesitant movement, Sawamura wonders what the witch might’ve overheard. He compiles what he’s learned of the king tonight, and thoughts begin to populate his mind. Why did Oikawa come on this quest? As a diplomatic show of good faith or because he doesn’t think his subjects can manage without him? He demands trust, and yet Sawamura is certain he keeps secrets from his people—shouldn’t honesty be the foundation of trust?

The balm traces the worst of his wounds, and Sawamura exhales sharply through his teeth.

“Sorry,” Sugawara murmurs. The warrior shakes his head, so the witch resumes. A moment passes, then Sugawara asks mutedly, “Daichi-san, why did you want me along on this trip?”

Sawamura takes a second to answer. “You’re clearly involved in some way,” he reasons. “You can hear Kageyama’s magic.”

Sugawara hums lowly. His breath lands chilly on Sawamura’s skin, and the warrior shudders. “Maybe that’s ‘cause I have my own crow totem,” Sugawara suggests. He says it as a joke, which makes Sawamura’s reaction all the more startling.

“You—what?” The warrior cranes his neck to meet the witch’s gaze and instantly regrets the sudden movement when the scar on his back screeches in fury.

Sugawara draws back a fraction and explains, “A crow totem. I have one.”

“Let me see!”

“It’s at my studio!” Sugawara draws back a little more. “What’s so troubling about it?”

“Does it look like mine?” Sawamura demands.

Frenzied eyes seize Sugawara’s attention, and the witch reassesses his expectations for having a normal conversation with Sawamura. It seems every time they talk, he upsets the man somehow. Too much time has passed now, so Sugawara stutters out, “Uh, yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s about the same size, and its wings are folded, too.”

Here, Sugawara shuts his mouth and waits on the warrior’s response.

“Only people from Karasuno have totems shaped like crows,” Sawamura murmurs. Sugawara watches his pupils dart back and forth, and he gets the impression Sawamura is scanning a horizon only he can see. Wanting to escape this fervid glare, Sugawara gently turns Sawamura by his shoulders under the guise of applying the last of the ointment.

“It might not be a crow,” Sugawara rationalizes. “I haven’t looked too closely. Besides, I picked mine up at a market years ago. It’s probably just a coincidence.”

He tries not to dwell on how silent the warrior is. Indeed, the whole inn grows silent now as if watching them, waiting for their next move. Sugawara finds it all very unsettling. He chalks it up to his imagination, gives a light tap to Sawamura’s shoulder, and chirps, “All done!”

Sawamura slips on his shirt and faces Sugawara once more. Head pounding ferociously, the warrior declares, “Suga. I don’t believe in coincidence. I’m certain now you’re supposed to be here.”

The more Sawamura thinks and talks, the more the pressure swells in his head, but he wants distraction no longer. He wades into the pain and grapples in the murk for that elusive thread. There is a truth at the end of it, and he intends to seize it, fleeting dreams and splitting headaches be damned.

A flash of violet lightning. A treacherous spike in the wailing from down the hall. The jar slips from Sugawara’s fingertips just as Sawamura latches onto that thrashing thought to say—

“You don’t belong in Seijoh.”

Sugawara’s eyes go wide and Sawamura is left breathless. The jar rolls to a stop between them.

“What?” Sugawara murmurs, and the sound seeps into the dusty beams and salve-flecked floorboards.

Sawamura grips his head and tries to justify what he just said. He knows there is an explanation, but he cannot think of it now—he’s too exhausted. So he cobbles together, “You’re unhappy there in that tiny studio. And—and you worry so much about money. And you’re afraid of your own leader—"

Sugawara stands up, cutting Sawamura off. He doesn’t know what just happened, just that there’s a dull burn in his fingertips and he’d very much like to leave now. He tries for level, but he comes off shrill, “Aoba Johsai is a wonderful place to live, Sawamura-san. I _like_ my life. I _like_ my king! And I don’t appreciate you presuming otherwise—or, or suggesting that I’m wrong for doing so!”

“That’s not what I—” Sawamura starts, but Sugawara silences him with a dismissive wave of the hand and heads for the door.

“Sleep on your stomach tonight,” he advises through tight lips. There is no trace of that kind smile now. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And now, alone in his room, perched on the edge of a creaky, beat-up stool, Sawamura tosses his head back and stares at the ceiling. Perhaps he shouldn’t have pulled at that thread. 


	10. The Mountain Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party departs! But this is no journey for the fainthearted.

The mountains are old. They stand at the Western edge of Aoba Johsai and dream of time immemorial when continental shifts and glacial retreats carved their intentions with the lazy, inevitable claws of time. Today the mountains bear newer scars cut with decidedly more purpose. They do not care about this force called humanity any more than any other species; they are consigned to wait for the day when they are but dust scattered to the wind.

Of course, centuries upon centuries of forest clearing, boulder moving, and tunnel digging are not easily abided. And so, the mountain air turned thin and the tenable travel seasons short. In time, every direct tunnel collapsed and every road was destroyed by rockslides; now, only one path remains. It is the Mountain Pass, so-called for it belongs solely to the mountain range through which it cuts. It is the only path the mountains allow anymore, and today’s travelers must proceed with caution.

Along the pass, the mountain range preserved one area of respite for the weary pilgrim: a rather shallow system of caves worn by wind, a half-day’s journey on foot (weather permitting), just deep enough to keep a small party from freezing to death through the night.

For this Mountain Pass and these caves, our party is bound. They start their early morning with modestly high hopes. The weather seems fair, their boots are sturdy, and their travel cloaks are warm. The worst of their troubles seems to be that no one slept well last night. The peaks and falls of the wailing awoke Oikawa, and every time he stirred, Iwaizumi roused also. Matsukawa and Hanamaki might have gotten better rest if Sawamura—whom they roomed with—hadn’t kept getting up in the night to pace the halls and walk off his headache. Sugawara was not bothered by the pacing nor the wailing. Rather, his restless sleep started in his dreams. One dream in particular:

Sugawara stands in his studio talking to his most recent customer. It is not truly his studio as he knows it in the waking world for the walls and floors are made of red clay, carved to look like wooden beams, and the sky outside was a brilliant shade of indigo. Neither is it actually Daishō who stands before him, wordlessly pleading for his help, for this man is notably taller and his hair is lighter, longer, and pulled into a tight knot behind his head. He also has the beginnings of a beard, which frankly would look ridiculous on the actual Daishō. But, as this was a dream, Sugawara finds his mouth opening to say, “This is my studio. You are my customer,” over and over again as the purplish-blue sky seeps into the room. And that was that.

Not a particularly alarming dream, but it did end in Sugawara’s eyes flying open to take in the darkened room. No clay, no customer, no sensical reason why the ends of his fingers should tingle with the same fading burn he experienced in Sawamura’s room. Stronger still is the ache in his chest, one he recognizes although cannot recall the last time he felt it. He is homesick.

And from that point on in the night, the wailing emanating from the king’s head kept Sugawara from settling into such a deep sleep again, and soon Iwaizumi was rousing everyone so they could depart at dawn.

They hire out a team of horses from the Westward Inn’s stables to get them to the base of the pass. The handler hitches up the horses and leads their line along the wooded path towards the mountains. She is silent under the slowly lightening sky for she knows that crossing the Mountain Pass at this time of year is a serious affair. This party must conserve as much energy as possible.

Of course, the real reason Matsukawa and Hanamaki aren’t jabbering away is because they are too busy yawning. Oikawa doesn’t trust himself to carry a lighthearted conversation when every twig snap and horse whinny resounds painfully in his sleep-deprived head. Sugawara avoids any dialogue with Sawamura, partly because he is still upset but also he feels a little ridiculous over how he reacted last night. He should know by now that the warrior is bound to say cryptic things, so he really needn’t get so offended.

Sawamura, on the other hand, feels downright miserable. He is torn between wanting to smooth things over with the witch and wanting to give him more space, and so he ends up saying nothing. Not to mention, after Sugawara left his room last night, Sawamura went digging through his pockets to retrieve his totem, if only to have something to yell at. Only it was nowhere to be found. And so, on top of his guilt over judging Sugawara’s life there is the shame of having lost one of his “people”, as the witch so kindly dubbed it.

And Iwaizumi, ever-vigilant Head Guard Iwaizumi, keeps his mouth closed and his eyes scanning. The hand not holding the reigns to his horse rests on the hilt of his sword, and he stares. Deep in the tree line is the potential for danger: threat lurks in the periphery, and Iwaizumi cannot shake the feeling of being watched.

More than once, at the snap of a branch in the woods or the scuttle of something in the undergrowth, Iwaizumi whips his head around to locate the perpetrator—only to find nothing. Nothing in the purple shades of the trees, perched on a bough, watching silently and intently through enormous eyes. Iwaizumi hates the feeling of being watched.

When they reach the signpost indicating the start of the Mountain Pass, the party dismounts. Horses don’t traverse the pass. They are rarely in such a hurry to get from one side of the mountains to the other to even consider such a risk.

As the handler regroups the horses, she calls out to Hanamaki, “You sure you all know what you’re doing?” She means it kindly but not without an air of skepticism.

Hanamaki waves her off, “Been in these mountains countless times,” he reassures, which is a partial truth. The Royal Guards do mountain training twice a year, bolstering their constitution and survival skills. But never has he taken the pass this late in the season, nor have Oikawa, Sugawara, or Sawamura ever taken part in such training. But Hanamaki reasons that the handler doesn’t need all this information, so he sends her off with a generous gratuity for the early morning trip.

The pink streaks of dawn stream in from the sea and push the party onwards, and the tension of being watched subsides to the anticipation of a long hike.

The path starts off gradual, densely packed from generations of travelers. There is a gentle slope off to their right and a steep wall of the first mountain’s peak to their left. The party winds their way up and along the mountain, single file, one mindful foot in front of the other.

The crunch of gravel grinds in Oikawa’s ears, and he assumes lead of the line to keep his companions from seeing him wince with every grating step. He can feel the traces of Kageyama’s corrupted magic course through him, and the stumps on the top of his head throb in time. Between Sugawara’s proximity and the blessing of time, the wailing has calmed since his spar with Iwaizumi, but it settled into a new baseline more prominent and irritating than before. And it troubles Oikawa to know that Sugawara hears it, too.

But Sugawara does not display his discomfort as openly. Indeed, from his position of second to last in the line, the wailing gets somewhat lost in the mountain breeze. He is more preoccupied with the frequency of Sawamura sneaking glances over his shoulder to check on him—as if he couldn’t handle a day’s hike. He has half a mind to yell at Sawamura to watch his own damn feet, but he wouldn’t want to subject Hanamaki—who is between them—to something so unsavory.

The path dips as it winds around the second peak—the halfway mark to the caves—and here, “pass” is better termed “ridge” for the slope is no longer gentle and the road is no longer wide. The marker is a notable achievement for any traveler, but this one comes a full two hours later than it should’ve.

“We’re moving too slow,” Sawamura grumbles beneath his breath. Perhaps he meant it to be for his ears only, but he does not know how much sleeplessness has sharpened Oikawa’s hearing today.

The king snaps over his shoulder, “Perhaps you would like to set the pace, Sawamura-kun.”

The bite in his tone rivals that of the wind, which has picked up considerably. Hanamaki’s nose stings from the cold and Sugawara’s toes feel bloodless. Now is not the time for infighting, Sawamura knows as he flexes his own rigid fingers within the folds of his cloak, armor creaking with the slight movement. He dryly concedes, “Let’s keep moving.”

It is not Sawamura’s imagination. They are moving slower than they should, although no one really knows why. Any good witch knows that magic exists in all things—so, it can be terribly difficult to identify magic at work in any given moment. Concentrated bursts of directed magic carry flashes of color or movement—like the visage of an amorphous crow shadow or projectiles of teal light—but most magic, that which contains and is contained in all things, is much harder to pick out.

The mountains, ancient and ever-changing, exude their own magic. It is the same one that erodes paths and collapses tunnels and operates on a timescale incomprehensible to human beings. It is what makes the ground so cold and the air so dry, but it is not the source of the magic that slows the party now. The mountains don’t care enough about small groups of humans going on foot to expend any magic on them. No, there is another force here. It hides within the howling wind, screeching wordlessly and pelting the travelers with the threat of hail and weakened resolve. It slows their steps by a fraction, too small to be noticed but enough to create a sizeable loss in time. And if the party doesn’t reach the caves before sundown, they will surely freeze.

By the time they reach the second marker, a wooden stake wedged in the rock right next to a sharp turn in the path, they know they are a mere two miles away from the caves. Oikawa rounds the bend and too many things happen at once.

Oikawa’s right foot meets the absence of ground. He wheels his arms backwards and Iwaizumi makes a grab for his torso, jerking him back onto the path and colliding with Sawamura behind him. Hanamaki doesn’t see this pileup; his nose is fully bleeding now, and Matsukawa leans between Sugawara and the mountain to offer Hanamaki a handkerchief. As Hanamaki runs into Sawamura, he stumbles backward and jams Matsukawa’s outstretched fingers. Matsukawa reflexively yanks his arm back, whacking Sugawara in the head as Hanamaki falls into him.

All this in the span of two seconds, and Sugawara loses his balance.

The ridge they traverse now drops off a merciless thousand feet, but Sugawara doesn’t see this plunge for his body faces the mountainside. What he does see is craggy walls and frantic faces slowly drawing away from him. Matsukawa grasps for the edges of his cloak and Sawamura lunges past Hanamaki, the single cry of “Suga!” mixing with the wind. Sugawara does not fully realize that he is falling. What he does notice, however, is a buzzing in the air all around him. A sinister force skulks in the wind, waiting for his demise.

A shriek cuts through the cacophony and is quickly drowned out by a draft of wind shooting upwards, strong enough to lift Sugawara and send him hurtling back onto the path. Sugawara slams into the rock, and several pairs of arms lock around him instantly, keeping him pinned to the mountainside.

He cannot hear the panicked words of the guards and warrior around him; he only hears the echoes of a desperate, terrified shriek, and his eyes—wide and shaking—find themselves turning towards the front of the line.

Hand outstretched, slack-jawed, and panting heavily, Oikawa stares back. Iwaizumi holds Oikawa by the waist, his eyes screwed shut as he focuses on fully supporting the king’s weight after Oikawa dove in Sugawara’s direction. Sugawara’s racing heart forces him to focus on everything and nothing all at once, but he thinks, just for a moment while his brain is capable of thought, he sees something leak out the corner of Oikawa’s mouth, viscous and violet.

Sugawara instinctively pushes fingers to the side of his own mouth, and Oikawa gets the hint. He drags a sleeve carelessly across his lips as Iwaizumi barks, “Stand on your own feet, Shitty-kawa! You’re damn heavy!”

Oikawa rights himself, and every party member clings to the mountainside and anxiously looks to the king. All except Sawamura, who keeps his eyes and hands on Sugawara, assessing for injury.

Oikawa clears his throat and hollers above the wind, “The path ends. We need a new plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, friends! Hope this chapter can be a momentary escape from the truly upsetting times we're living in. Stay healthy and safe y'all!


	11. The Witch's Brew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A witch is nothing if not comfy at a cauldron.

They make their way back to the halfway mark where the wind is lighter, the path is wider, and the slope is kinder. Oikawa pulls an impressive map from his pack and rolls it out atop a rock. Intricately detailed landscapes are inked on the massive sheet of parchment, but Oikawa focuses all attention on the dashed line winding through the mountains.

“It’s the only known path,” he mutters to himself. “How else are we going to get to the caves?”

Time creeps into the early afternoon, and they’ve been walking since dawn. Sugawara collapses against a nearby outcrop, and Sawamura—who has not left the witch’s side the whole trip down—hovers beside him. He is towering yet timid, and Sugawara shuts his eyes under the pretense of exhaustion so as not to look at him. He is saved when Oikawa beckons Sawamura over.

“Your route led us to a dead end,” Oikawa accuses as soon as Sawamura is in speaking range, causing the warrior to prickle.

“My route was fine. The path must’ve broken off in a rockslide.”

“Fine,” Oikawa concedes in a tone that tells Sawamura exactly how remorseless he truly is. “But we need a new plan. Here’s what I’m thinking…”

Sawamura and Oikawa argue over the map, and the guards join Sugawara at the much quieter base of the outcrop. Matsukawa takes a swig from his canteen as Hanamaki bunches the handkerchief against his nose.

“Still bleeding?” Iwaizumi asks, to which Hanamaki waves the bloody rag in his face.

“What do you think?”

Iwaizumi ruffles at the bluntness and ignores Hanamaki in favor of asking, “Are you alright, Sugawara-san?”

He receives no warm regards there either for Sugawara snaps, “I’m fine. Sawamura-san’s already treating me like I’m made of glass. Don’t you start, too.”

He knows he shouldn’t speak to the Head of the Royal Guard so disparagingly, but his frayed nerves gets the better of him. Short tempers must be catching on. Iwaizumi’s brow hardens. He opens his mouth to reprimand, but stops when Matsukawa knocks a hand against his knee. They exchange the briefest of glances before Matsukawa turns back to Sugawara.

“You almost died a couple hours ago. I don’t know about Sawamura, but I think asking if you’re alright is an appropriate level of concern,” Matsukawa says evenly.

Sugawara presses his palms against his eyes to rub out the weariness and yields, “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He lets his hands drop and stares off into the misty mountain range expanding all around them. “I was really scared,” he admits. “And I—” and here the memory of violet bile surfaces, and he falters. He rationalizes that it was just a hallucination, induced by the panic of a near-fall. And perhaps it is also just his imagination telling him that the wailing in Oikawa’s head has since quieted as if it’s been…sated. Iwaizumi fixes him with a raised eyebrow, but Sugawara quickly shakes his head to rid of the surely inaccurate memory.

“I was scared,” he repeats in a whisper.

“We should’ve been more careful,” Iwaizumi sighs. “Especially with all the training we do.”

Matsukawa nods solemnly and Hanamaki pulls the rag from his face. His nose still bleeds, but it has slowed somewhat. Not a pretty sight, but manageable. He asks, “Sugawara-kun, did you and the warrior have a fight?”

Sugawara rubs the shoulder that slammed into the mountain and avoids looking Hanamaki in the eye as he assesses his last conversation with Sawamura. “Not a fight,” he decides. “More like a misunderstanding.”

Hanamaki hums, “Well, for what it’s worth, he seems to trust you. More than he does Oikawa, anyway.” And just on time, the discussion over at the map sparks into audible bickering, and Iwaizumi begrudgingly gets up to go reinstate peace. Hanamaki continues, “We’ve got plenty working against us on this journey as it is, so the more you can keep things pleasant with him, the better.”

Sugawara considers the advice. His mind drifts to the image of Sawamura’s face last night, full of helplessness and grief for no sensible reason. He considers the chaos and panic on the windswept mountainside. The yelling, the howling, the blood staining Hanamaki’s upper lip, the glacial exhaustion dragging at Matsukawa’s shoulders. Pleasantry, it seems, is in short supply.

And so Sugawara stands, brushes gray dirt off his trousers, and declares, “You know what I need? Something good to eat.”

“Me, too,” Matsukawa harmonizes. “I doubt we’ll find any game near the path, though.”

Sugawara surveys the area through the keen eyes of a horticulturist and says, “There’s plenty of edible flora around here. Get a fire going and put some water on to boil. I’ll gather something good.”

And in no time at all, Sugawara is leaning over a bubbling travel pot, a bushel of weedy plants at his side. He stokes the fire, stirs in the shoots, and coaxes stories out of the First Guards. And thus begins a dramatic retelling of the Guards’ most recent Year’s End feast.

“Life in the barracks sounds lively,” Sugawara comments as he cracks in some peppercorn he found in a forgotten pocket of his cloak. He pours a serving into Hanamaki’s cup and stirs in another leafy sprout.

Matsukawa musses his hair back into place once his impression of Second Guard Kindaichi concludes, and Hanamaki chuckles, “If you really want a good story, you ought to ask Iwaizumi about the what happened the last time Kyōtani challenged him.”

Sugawara immediately calls Iwaizumi over, and Hanamaki pales. “Wait, no, don’t actually—” he protests above Matsukawa’s snickering, and that only sells Sugawara on hearing the story more.

Iwaizumi peels off from Sawamura and Oikawa, whose bickering has eased back into a normal conversation. Sugawara cracks more peppercorn into the soup and asks about this Kyōtani’s challenge through a wide smile. Iwaizumi goes pale and turns a harsh glare on the First Guards, both of whom abandon any pretense of hesitancy now. He gets up to leave, but between Hanamaki’s and Matsukawa’s teases and Sugawara’s sincere tug on his sleeve, they convince him to stay.

It isn’t long before more laughter erupts around a fire that flares a little brighter. Iwaizumi accepts a cup, and Hanamaki finds the steam from the cauldron soothing to inhale.

Matsukawa is on his second serving now, and Sugawara sends a glance toward Sawamura and Oikawa. Their foreheads are furrowed and they stand as far apart as they can manage while still being able to review the map. Oikawa says something with abject resolution and rolls the map back up. It is at this moment that Sawamura catches Sugawara’s gaze, and the witch flinches slightly.

_Pleasant_ , Sugawara reminds himself. He waves Sawamura over.

Sawamura’s gait is cautious but the corners of his eyes betray his hopefulness. Sugawara doles out a cup and hums, “Got any good stories from Karasuno, Sawamura-san?”

Before Sawamura can reply, Oikawa sidles up to the fire and announces the new course of action. “We need to reach the caves by nightfall. If we continue at this elevation, off the beaten path, we should be able to make it to a spot below the caves. The weather seems to be less treacherous at this altitude, so I have no doubt we can reach that point within a few hours. Trouble is, we’ll have a vertical climb up to the ledge where the entrance is. If we move quickly, I should be able to climb up and secure a rope for everyone.”

Iwaizumi objects, “No way in hell I’m letting you scale a mountainside. I’ll do it.”

Oikawa lets out an irritated sigh. “Alright,” he concedes, “but we better get moving soon, or else—”

A dented tin cup materializes beneath his nose and cuts him off. Steam wafts up from the soup as Sugawara chides, “First, eat. We won’t move efficiently until _all_ of us have had a proper rest.”

The Royal Guards half-expect the king to bat the cup away and insist they get moving, but as Oikawa gawks at the brew, his expression shifts into something quiet and preoccupied. He accepts it in both hands and gradually deposits himself into a seat around the fire. The guards are flabbergasted. Sugawara simply turns back to the group.

“Sawamura-san,” chirps the witch, “I believe you have a story for us?”

No further prompting needed, Sawamura launches into a lush description of the seasonal flooding of the oases in the desert and the many bountiful celebratory feasts that follow. He tells of the enormous firepit they dig each year to prepare the stewed dates and figs for all of Karasuno to enjoy, and then he tells of the time his fellow warrior Asahi got flung head first into the cooling pot by Nishinoya, the smallest warrior of Karasuno, who was trying to prove some point about muscle strength and balance at the time.

Through it all, Oikawa remains silent. Despite the chill, the cup stays warm in his hands well into Sawamura’s tale. Oikawa’s eyes do not leave the swirling concoction, scanning intently. No one pays him any mind, however, as they are each rapt by Sawamura’s story and could swear they taste sweet figs in their soup. Sawamura finishes his tale and Oikawa’s eyes widen. He locks onto the witch and asks, “Did you do this?”

Sugawara startles at the sudden attention. He replies cautiously, “Do what?”

Oikawa haphazardly taps his finger to the rim of his cup. “The soup,” he clarifies with an odd grin. “It’s enchanted.”

Intrigued, Sugawara leans over to study the cup in Oikawa’s hands. The king traces his finger above its surface, and gradually Sugawara begins to see what he meant. The traces were faint but unmistakable once noticed: shades of blues and greens and teals and a hint of rusty orange tumble about in the whirling liquid. Intrinsic magic made visible.

“Oh,” Sugawara chuckles, “that’s just residual magic. You know, like the kind that lingers when you shake hands with someone or give them a pat on the back.”

“Or swap stories around a fire?” Sawamura interjects and Sugawara nods in assent.

“I understand that,” Oikawa pipes up. The tremble in his fingers and pitch in his voice makes Sawamura think he’s cold while Iwaizumi recognizes it as excitable curiosity. To Sugawara, however, the king looks positively manic.

“The magic in here is indeed residual. Nearly imperceptible! But I’d recognize my own magic anywhere. And Iwa-chan’s. And this one’s Makki’s. This is Mattsun’s. And this reddish one must be Sawamura’s.” The words tumble out of the king’s mouth as he studies the cup. “Small on their own, but they combine into one regular-sized enchantment—I’ve never seen so many intrinsic magics coexist in one object before!”

Sugawara is dumbfounded. Not because the coexistence of many magics was foreign to him. He utilizes such things in his wares all the time. Yet to think it would amount to an enchantment worthy of the king’s attention. It never would have crossed his mind.

Sawamura clears his throat and says, “Come to think of it, I do feel stronger. My head stopped aching, too.”

“My nose isn’t bleeding anymore,” Hanamaki realizes as he takes in a deep breath of mountain air that no longer stings his nostrils.

“I’m not even cold,” Matsukawa marvels while Iwaizumi contributes a low “’m not as irritable.”

Sugawara feels the weight of every eye on him, and he nervously pips out, “I probably should’ve asked before I channeled your magics.”

Iwaizumi barks out a laugh, “I won’t hold it against you, Sugawara-san.” The others nod, and a sheepish smile creeps across Sugawara’s face. Make no mistake—he knew what he was doing when he set the soup to boil, but he hardly imagined his machinations would be worth noting. The Great King is indeed perceptive.

Oikawa finally looks up from his cup and frowns. “Enchantments work best on the people whose magics are channeled. And yours isn’t in here, Sugawara-chan.”

“Ah, well—” Sugawara rubs a hand up the back of his neck “—that’s not surprising. Even if it was possible to channel your own magic, mine isn’t very potent to begin with.” He drops his hand and picks up his own cup. He poured himself a portion ten minutes ago and it’s still piping hot. The steam curls and kisses his nose with the memory of every story and every peal of laughter that went into it.

“But at the very least, it is still food,” he grins.

As Sugawara takes a swig, Oikawa suggests, “Let me restore some of your strength, Sugawara-chan. I can channel magic too, after all.”

Before Sugawara has the wherewithal to reply, Oikawa plops down beside him and rests one hand on the small of his back and cups the other over his eyes. Sugawara tenses—Sawamura, too—and Oikawa begins channeling.

He closes his eyes to focus on the core of magic within Sugawara. It flickers and wavers like smoke off a candle, and Oikawa coaxes it forth. It passes through the hand on Sugawara’s back, skates and strengthens within Oikawa, and finds its way back to its source through the top of his head.

It’s a basic heating and circulation spell, one that Oikawa has used since childhood. The Blue Castle could get terribly drafty in the cold season, after all. Of course, it is made slightly more difficult when the wailing starts thrashing about in Oikawa’s head. Not to mention how the horns beneath his hair throb the moment he begins channeling. Oikawa is certain Sugawara hears the wails pitch an octave, but the witch makes no comment for he is too distracted by the warmth flooding him from the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes. Oikawa withdraws his hands just as the horns started burning.

“How do you feel, Sugawara-chan?” Oikawa offers with a tight smile, willing away the discomfort.

Sugawara’s breath is hot and his cheeks are newly flushed. He is keenly aware that Sawamura’s eyes never once left him during the whole spell, and that makes him flush further. He manages, “Much better. Thank you, Oikawa-san.”

* * *

They manage to reach the base of the caves near sundown. Whatever force worked against them on their first attempt to cross the pass is rightfully avoided now thanks to their new route and Sugawara’s enchantment—of that Sawamura is sure. Unfortunately, in their effort to avoid the worst of the winds and steepest of the slopes, they are much further down from the caves than anticipated. Iwaizumi squints to pick out the ledge that holds the entrance to the caves through the gathering fog and fading light.

“Yeah, _no way in hell_ I’m letting you climb this,” Iwaizumi directs at Oikawa with a pointed glare.

Oikawa huffs, “Fine, but are you sure _you_ can make it? We don’t exactly know how high you have to climb.”

“It’s at least 100 ft,” Sawamura contributes then darkly adds, “but we can only see the first 50 from here.”

“What if we don’t have enough rope?” Oikawa frets as Matsukawa and Hanamaki compile the coils from all their packs.

“300 ft,” Matsukawa calculates, and that’s all the confirmation Iwaizumi needs to fasten the lines around his waist. He discards his lengthy cloak, rolls up his sleeves, and begins stretching. He keeps his eyes on the cliff face, surveying for reliable handholds and decidedly not meeting Oikawa’s anxious gaze.

There’s no other route and Iwaizumi _is_ the best climber. Oikawa knows all this. But he also knows how Iwaizumi instinctively puts on a calm facade when Oikawa panics on his behalf. Sugawara does not necessarily know this, but he recognizes it all the same. The witch stands beside the king, searching for the proper reassurance and settling on shared silence. Absence can be just as powerful as the words themselves, as any experienced witch would say.

The wind has found them again. It hisses in their ears and swipes at Iwaizumi’s exposed hands as he reaches for the first hold, then the next. Foot replaces hand in time with the next reach. For all the howling wind and heavy breathing, the air is strangely quiet—watching, waiting.

Which makes the sound of a stranger’s voice behind them all the more startling.

“You’re gonna climb all the way up there?!”

Iwaizumi, hands locked in a crevice ten feet off the ground, whips his head back in time with the rest of the party. A man clad in a white robe with gold and black trimmings, hood pulled haphazardly over spiked hair. He stands directly behind Sugawara, too close to the king for Iwaizumi’s liking. The Head Guard is already on the ground by the time the king and the witch jump back and every guards’ sword is drawn. The man throws his hands up.

“Whoa! Whoa!” He hollers. “No trouble! I just wanted to see if you all were okay! You do know it’ll get below freezing soon, right? Do you have shelter for the night?”

His words are lost to the mounting gale and the stern shouts of the incited guards. Sugawara feels a sharp tug on the neck of his cloak—Sawamura pulls him away from the newcomer as Hanamaki does the same for Oikawa. Iwaizumi pushes past them, sword raised and yells above the clamor, “Identify yourself!”

It is as his sword juts toward the stranger that the peculiar sense of being watched comes over Iwaizumi for the second time today. The same feeling of something lurking just behind him only for him to turn and see nothing—only this time Iwaizumi sees quite a clear something when he glances over his shoulder.

Silent wings and the dark void of wide eyes: an owl the size of a human being descends upon them and sends the party diving out of its screeching path. It slashes at Iwaizumi with an irate talon before the Head Guard has a chance to react. He flinches out of the way, clutching his wounded shoulder. There is a flurry of feathers, the thud of a heavy landing, and when Iwaizumi looks up there is no longer an owl but a man standing between they and the stranger, stormy eyes narrowed in protective suspicion. It is a look that rivals Iwaizumi’s own when it comes to defending his charge.

The new arrival addresses the man behind him though his eyes never leave Iwaizumi’s hunched over frame and still-brandished sword.

“Bokuto-san, this isn’t them. We need to go back now.”

It is peculiar and disorienting to see a man turn into an owl with absolutely no in-between process of transformation. One moment a human is before them, crouching for a jump. The next, there is a much too large bird of prey taking off, and one has to wonder if there was ever a man there at all. But each party member is sufficiently reminded that these are one and the same being when the man called “Bokuto-san” wraps a hand around the owl’s leg and yells, “Wait! Akaashi!” and brings a human crashing to the ground with an aggravated squawk.

Akaashi turns a glare on Bokuto who has the good sense to look apologetic. “We can’t just leave them here!” Bokuto reasons. “They’ll freeze!”

“That’s not our concern,” Akaashi reprimands, but Bokuto squares his shoulders and firmly states, “It’s my fault. I snuck up on them. And now their climber has a wounded shoulder.”

Akaashi scrutinizes the party. The guards are back on their feet and form a protective vee around their king. Sugawara and Sawamura make up the rear, in a ready stance but otherwise without weaponry. They make no move for aggression, just stand in wary silence as Iwaizumi tries not to dwell on the blood seeping into his sleeve. A painstaking moment ensues, and Iwaizumi can practically hear the countless simulations whir by in his assailant’s head.

Less than a second passes, and Akaashi offers Iwaizumi a low bow. “My apologies. I reacted rashly. Now is not the time to be fighting.” He rattles it off so swiftly and sincerely that Iwaizumi coughs a hesitant “O-kay” in return. Akaashi resumes his stance and fixes his gaze on Oikawa. The protective ring does not escape him—he knows this is their leader.

“Are you trying to get to the caves?” Akaashi asks to which Oikawa returns a single nod. Akaashi continues, “Let us fly you up there.”

Once more, it is peculiar and disorienting to be lifted into the air when all one’s life has been spent on the ground. Even Sawamura’s frenzied totem-powered journey was more projectile than flight, and it could not compare to the way his stomach drops when Akaashi takes off, one talon gripping each underarm. Bokuto carries his passengers much the same with a second passenger clinging to his back. It was a kinder solution for the wounded Iwaizumi, and although Bokuto’s feathers tickled his nose the whole way up, the flutter of his ear tufts were quite mesmerizing. In but two trips, they reach the cave ledge with hearts in their throats and cold sweat sliding off their brows.

Akaashi fails to stifle the smirk that comes at their haggard expense, and Bokuto laughs heartily. “Isn’t it awesome? Flying’s the best!”

Hanamaki returns a wheezy thumbs up as he clutches at his chest, and Bokuto laughs once more. His mirth abruptly dies when Akaashi murmurs, “You’re explaining this to Kuroo-san.”

Bokuto deflates as Akaashi slips into the cave entrance, and Sugawara gawks at his ingress. The man didn’t just walk into the darkness of the cave. Rather, he passed through something—some barrier—and was instantly obscured.

“What was that?” the witch wonders. Bokuto returns to reality with a chuckle, more subdued this time but jovial all the same.

“It’s easier to explain once you’re in it,” he promises, which imparts less information than Sugawara hoped for. Bokuto simply beckons them entry and passes into the cave, and the party—weary from a day’s journey that had far more arguments and nose bleeds and mortal terrors than anyone wanted or foresaw—follow and leave the howling winds behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a minute, huh friends? Sorry 'bout that. Hope you enjoy the chapter :)


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